A Private Little War
by Nalbal
Summary: Little Kíli has always had a penchant for trouble yet something about this situation is gravely different: the constant bruises, speaking of sought-out trouble; the all but silent admissions of guilt, lacking silver-tongued excuses. His luster fades as he folds slowly inward and his behavior continues on a downward spiral. What is plaguing Thorin Oakenshield's youngest sister-son?
1. Chapter I

_****New A/N:**__ Hello all! In this tale, __Fíli and Kíli are the dwarven equivalent of **human** children aged **12 and 14 years old**; their 'actual' dwarf ages are 15 and 20 years old. When I refer to ages in-text I shall refer to their 'dwarf' ages._

_I finally took the time to ponder the dwarf age issue, and after much deliberation I created my own age conversion chart. Obviously these age equivalents are not 'fact', just my own head canon that helps me with this somewhat confusing topic (other writers may feel free to use it if they so choose). It goes up to age 50, at which I believe that dwarves "come of age"; you can see it in my note at the end of this chapter._

_Enjoy!_

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**Chapter I**

* * *

**_"Know thou the secret of a spirit_**

**_Bow'd from its wild pride into shame._**

**_O yearning heart!..."_**

_- Edgar Allan Poe, "Tamerlane"_

* * *

The heavy thud of the door reverberates around on the stone walls and the murmurs of conversation come to an abrupt standstill, like the crash of a cymbal marking a dramatic climax to a scene in a play that causes the audience to fall into a great hush.

This is no play, however.

Lingering luscious scents of Mother's delicious cooking waft in the air and find their way to my nostrils, but the tabletop is void of food; I am late. Dinner has already ended. In the days of old the aroma hanging in the kitchen air would have stirred great roars of hunger within me; now it only increases the churning in my stomach, the sickness that never seems to leave me.

Three pair of eyes look up at my arrival. I cannot bear to meet their gazes for I already know what I will find in them; hers, first shining with surprise then alarm, to be replaced with worry before descending into bitter disappointment and a hint of anger. Brother – his blue eyes will have dulled, directed attention elsewhere, anywhere, rather than look upon me; he is filled with guilt, I know, so torn is he inside. This weighs upon me as well.

Finally, _his _eyes; grey-blue, smoky with righteous temper. They darken, ever darken as they take sight of me; the storm cloud covers his face and the unmistakable look of disgust and disapproval washes over him. If he were capable of shuddering he probably would do so.

I don't need to look up to see all these emotions play out. I've seen them all before. Nay, I don't need to raise my head to see their gazes tracing over today's new and yet familiar additions to my appearance: the black eye, the split lip, the various bruises here and there and everywhere... and they are everywhere, for even though I am fully clothed I sense my mother's eyes studying me from head to toe, wondering at the full extent of the unseen damages. The only thing I wonder at now is who will be the first to remonstrate me this time.

"Kíli." It is Mother. She breathes my name in a sigh, a weary statement that speaks a bundle all on its own. There is a long pause before she continues. "Where have you been?"

A ridiculous question, really. They all know the answer already – at least, the general answer that I always supply. It seems pointless to give it again. _She knows and she is disappointed._

"He's been brawling," Uncle Thorin growls in that dangerously deep voice of his. Apparently he too feels that my response is unnecessary. "End of story."

I hear the loud scraping of a wooden chair against stone and I look up; Thorin has risen to his feet and he casts a disparaging glare of muted fury at me before he turns heel and walks away. "No prince is he," I overhear him mutter aloud in an irate tone, half to himself and half to no one in particular. He cares to listen to nothing from me. As the click-clack of his metal-toed boots echo and fade down the hall I am forced to swallow the lump in my throat that seems to have taken permanent residence there. _He believes I have dishonored him._

Silence reigns for a good minute before Mother speaks again.

"I will clean you up," she says in a clipped voice. I am not even granted the privilege of looking after my own wounds. Even that small thing is denied me... but then I'm only fifteen, just a boy, and mothers always want to fuss over their young ones. Already resigned to my fate I follow her beckoning finger and clamber up on the high stool while she gets a cloth.

* * *

His face is riddled with pity and confusion and grief, an almost tragic look in his eyes.

"How much longer are you going to keep this up, little brother?" Fíli demands of me, grabbing me by both shoulders so I am forced to face him, forced to meet his gaze and acknowledge the torment I am putting him through. "When are you going to tell the truth?"

At twenty years of age Fíli is not a liar by nature. Oh, sure, he has always been the greatest mastermind when it comes to our pranks, and he is skilled in the art of "storytelling", as he'd put it, to weasel us out of any subsequent trouble, but not when it was something truly serious. That's different. This _is _serious, and he does not enjoy seeing me end up like this every time. _Even he is disappointed in me._

"When I can walk through that door with my head held high and victory to claim as my own," I tell him in a stubborn voice. He knew that's what I was going to say and he clearly is not satisfied. He shakes his head firmly, golden hair flying from the force of his movements.

"And when will that be?" he demands, anguish in his voice. "When you've had every fool bone in your body broken, huh? Maybe? Or maybe when you've made all of Mum's hair turn to grey." Fíli releases his grip and he turns away, upset, and crosses his arms tightly against his chest in frustration. "This isn't fair. It isn't right. And all because of your stupid pride. It's all so ridiculous, Kíli. What have you got to lose by telling the truth?" _He thinks it's because I'm a coward._

"Uncle's respect," I respond in a bland tone.

"You've already lost that by going about it this way," he answers with equal blandness.

"I'd rather he think of me as a fighter than a weakling," I counter, "T'is better this way."

"Is it? Is it, really?" Fíli replies bitterly. He turns to me scowling, but even the blackest of frowns could not have disguised the glistening water swimming in his eyes. "I _hate _this, Kíli. I can't stand it any more. I want it to end."

"Don't you dare rat out on me," I hiss suddenly, lip curling. I step a few paces closer until I'm almost nose-to-nose with him. "This is _my _problem, so let me handle it _my _way."

He breathes out a harsh sigh, exasperated. "But you're _not_ handling it. Nothing's been solved. If you just told him everything he would understand, and he could put an end to it; he could –"

"I don't **want **him to put an end to it!" I exclaim, equally exasperated. We've gone over this before, Fíli and I. This is old ground. "I want to put an end to it _myself_, and until I can do it without someone's help then it's not going to end! I need to prove myself!"

Fíli's temper visibly grows short. "This is no way to prove yourself to Uncle Thorin."

"I'm not _trying _to prove myself to just him, Fíli," I gasp, gesturing helplessly. "I'm... I'm trying to prove myself to _me**.**_"

He stares at me. I've never verbalized it quite like this before. His eyes narrow. "And just what are you trying to prove?"

I meet his gaze once before looking away, my passion seeping away like smoke at his scathing look. I can only shrug. "Everything," I mutter._That I'm worthy of the family name._

Fíli would have pressed me further except that Mother's approach is harkened by the sound of her footfalls. We have been standing in front of her bedroom door, me awaiting her arrival. My brother turns to me once more, his voice pleading.

"Tell her," he says simply. "Just... tell her." His voice cracks. Good ol' Fíli. _He's the mature one but it turns out he's only a child after all._

Tears pinprick the corners of my own eyes but I set my jaw resolutely and shake my head. He looks at me hard, his distress plain. _I have let him down._

Fíli bites his lip and turns abruptly away, walking quickly down the hall just as Mother turns the corner and appears before me, the dreaded willow switch in hand.

"Come, Kíli," she says simply, authoritatively.

My voice is too strangled in my throat for me to speak, and my vision clouds as I follow her into her chambers. _She thinks she's the one punishing me, but in reality I am punishing myself._

* * *

With silent, secretive footsteps I tiptoe to the door, fetch my cloak from where it hangs on a wooden peg on the wall and lay my hand on the door knob.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Aulë preserve me, I think I would have screamed like a girl if the voice had belonged to anyone but Fíli. As it is I flinch, badly startled, then roll my eyes at the absurd nature of the question.

"Oh, I don't know," I reply, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I have this quiver on my back, it's full of arrows, I have a bow over my shoulder – and, oh, look! – there's a sparring rod in my hand, gee –"

"I thought Mum banished you to the house for the next few days," my brother interjects seriously, ignoring my snarky attitude.

"Yeah, well," I shrug a little, feeling slightly embarrassed for having spoken to him as I did but still too annoyed to apologize, "I'm bored an' I need air." Out of all the clever excuses I could have offered him it is a fairly lame one, and I know it; I don't expect for a moment that Fíli will believe it and the expression on his face confirms that thought.

However, he surprises me by not chiding me or grabbing my arm and trying to force me back to my room before someone catches me in this act of disobedience, by not trying to act like the responsible big brother as he usually does in these type of situations. Instead he plasters on a small grin, apparently trying to lift my spirits and offer me moral support by lightening the situation. _Really, he's given up on me._

"If you stay here, I'll help you pass the time by braiding your hair all nice and pretty like mine," he jokes weakly. "Maybe that's all you need." His laughter is soft. "The state of your hair reflects the state of your mind. Sort one out and the other might sort itself."

I cannot accept his humor. There is too much warring within me to allow me to laugh or even return a cheerful expression. I can only stare back at him solemnly as I make my reply.

"No." The word is short, blunt, and it is enough to kill the false smile on my brother's face. "I must practice," I continue. "There can be no rest for me. Not until – "

"We used to train together," Fíli interrupts in a quiet voice. He takes a shuddering breath and sighs deeply. "I see so little of you nowadays and now even in this we are separated." His tone is one so crestfallen and hurt that I wince at my own callousness; his words ring true. He and I have been joined at the hip since we were babes in arms, spending almost every waking moment together. We're well known for that. Folks around here usually refer to us as one entity – 'Fíli-And-Kíli' – rather than individually, for we are so close that we practically exist as the living half of the other, unable to survive in separation. However, these past few weeks we've gone through each day passing one another like ships in the night as I have gradually pulled myself further away from him. Alas, time spent together is becoming alarmingly scarce and the fault is all mine.

There is a long pause.

"I'm sorry, Brother," I finally murmur. I quickly open the door and slip out into the evening's dying light before I can witness the suffering look in Fíli's eyes. _In this battle I must stand alone._

* * *

It is hours later when I eventually trudge back home under the cover of darkness and slink through a back door, every muscle aching from the work I have subjected my body to. Everyone has retired to bed so I am safe at the moment; I sit on the earthen floor before the comforting hearth that roars in the great room, kept burning by the servants in order to warm these stone halls in the chilly night, and I begin the assembly of new arrows as well as the repair of current ones.

I am focused diligently on my task and am lost in my own morose thoughts, so much so that I do not hear his approach or catch sight of his imposing figure. Whether he has stood there for some time or has just newly arrived I do not know, but he makes his presence known when he clears his throat sternly. Were I not so numb with fatigue I think I might have jumped clear into the fire from surprise at the sound.

I jerk my head up immediately. "U-Uncle!" I stutter, bewildered. I am not used to being the one snuck up on and spooked – usually the roles are reversed – and I would not have expected anyone to still be awake at this time of night, least of all _him_.

Thorin slowly makes his way towards me and into path of the flickering firelight with his hands folded gravely behind his back, his face ever unreadable, grey-blue eyes peering at me from beneath dark, bushy brows. He does not speak but instead regards me quietly for a while as he approaches the hearth; soon he stands towering over me, still saying nothing and appearing placid enough. My heart beats rapidly in my chest as I stare up at him meekly, nervously, from my cross-legged position on the ground, arrows in my lap and arranged on the ground in neat piles all about me. I expect an outburst of fury, a caustic rebuke, a searing lecture of astounding proportions for which Thorin is famous . . . and am surprised once again when there is nothing. Is this the calm before the storm? I cannot translate this expression deep in Uncle's eyes; it is familiar and yet unknown to me.

"The hour is late," he eventually announces in that deep, rumbling voice of his. "Why are you not in your bedchambers?"

At any other time I might have very well asked him the same thing because he is clearly not dressed for sleep either; he still wears his day clothes and even his great fur coat. Thorin is a king, however – a fact of which I must constantly remind myself – and one does not question a king, especially if he is your uncle and guardian to boot. In any case I am in no position to be the one asking questions, what with my recent actions.

His expression tells me that I have delayed my answer too long.

"I... I could not... sleep," I finally say, awkward even in my own lie.

Thorin nods slightly, seeming to accept that explanation for the moment, even though I doubt he is truly fooled by my falsehood. He falls silent once more and his gaze travels from me to the crackling hearth; he turns his body away from me to face the warm blaze though I know he is not finished speaking with me.

"Your conduct of late is disturbing," he intones. "To say the least."

Not knowing whether I am supposed to supply an explanation or only to listen I choose to hold my tongue; it turns out that I was correct to do so for Thorin continues.

"I do not know to what end you expect your actions to lead but I can promise you that if you do not rectify the situation, there shall be regretful consequences."

This time I dare to speak. "I'm working on it, Uncle," I quietly say.

He looks sideways at me. "Your mother is rapidly reaching the end of her wits," he replies, a little harshly this time. "And your brother is increasingly more troubled with every passing day. You two scarcely keep company together anymore – which is hardly a crime but it concerns me nonetheless – and I suspect that there is much on his mind concerning this matter. I believe he knows the reasons behind your actions yet for reasons of his own refuses to divulge them."

I almost say "_Fíli knows nothing,_" but the look on Thorin's face turns dark as though in an ominous dare to offer him another lie, so I wisely say nothing and instead bow my head in a proper expression of remorse. There is another pause as he thoughtfully takes in my appearance.

"As a warrior I cannot tell you not to fight, but to fight for the right reasons," he mutters. "You are of the line of Durin; you are of royal blood. While it is Fíli who stands to inherit the throne if we are ever to reclaim Erebor you are still a prince, his brother and advisor, and a member of the royal family. Your conduct must reflect this," Thorin says firmly, with emphasis on this last sentence. "There is a fine line between fighting with honorable cause and brawling like a common thug. Until you can discern the difference you must exercise the necessary wisdom to refrain from falling into these situations. Only a fool fights without cause." He gives me a hard look. "Do you understand me, Kíli?"

I have silently listened all this time but now I nod in response and solemnly answer him in a subdued voice: "Yes, Uncle; I understand." _He thinks I am a fool._

He nods again. "Good," is all he says. Thorin is a plain-speaking man who somewhat lacks natural eloquence, and I know him well enough to understand that he deliberated long and hard on the words he just told to me. I know I would do well not to ignore them.

This apparently marks the conclusion of our discussion because he drops his gaze and turns away from me, heading towards his own quarters; however, he pauses at the edge of the firelight shining on the floor.

"Oh," he says, speaking as though in afterthought, "One more thing." His back remains turned to me as he continues. "Sneaking outdoors to train alone in the dark is not only a severe risk to your personal safety but an act of complete disregard for your mother's authority, especially when you were expressly forbidden from leaving the halls as a result of your misconduct. I have decided to say and do nothing regarding the matter... this time. But – " his voice deepens further, laced with a dark tone of warning, "– if you commit another act of such blatant disobedience and I find out about it, I assure you that I will not hesitate to take you over my knee and learn you myself. Hear me, boy?"

My eyes widen and I blanch at first – a strong shiver running through me – then color, my cheeks flushing red with shame. It is quite rare that Fíli or I ever receive thrashings from our uncle and though it has been a long while since I was last disciplined in such a manner, the memory lies painfully crystal clear within my mind. Suffice to say that it is an experience that I do not care to repeat.

"N-No sir!" I exclaim with muted horror, frightened by my own flashback. "I mean, yes sir; I-I hear you loud and clear!" I do believe my voice actually _squeaked_, confound it.

Thorin grunts quietly and nods a little, evidently finding satisfaction (and possibly amusement) with the extent of my reaction. He has made a definite impression on me and is content that his point has been driven home. It seems he is now ready retire but he lingers still, having one more thing he wishes to say.

"And, Kíli?" Thorin turns back to me ever-so-slightly and looks over his shoulder. "Make an end here and go to bed promptly. It is too late for you to be up and your mother would not be pleased."

"Yes, Uncle; right away, sir," I murmur, timidly glancing his way as I start gathering up my arrows under his watchful eye.

"Excellent. Good night, Kíli."

"G'night, Uncle Thorin. Sleep well," I add hastily, my gaze following his retreating back. The dwarf disappears into the soft darkness and I can hear his footfalls grow farther and farther away. I exhale suddenly, relief washing over me at my good fortune; I know I'm lucky that Thorin didn't bawl me out in a torrent of fiery words and... well. His warning still stands; I must take great care from now on.

I can't help but wonder how on earth he had known of tonight's misdeed, and what he suspects of my admittedly strange behavior if anything at all. Not that it really matters; it doesn't change anything._ I still have yet to prove myself... no matter what it takes._

* * *

**To be continued. . .**

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_DONATE TO THIS STORY.__FEED THE STARVING ARCHITECTURE STUDENT- __**100% of the proceeds (a.k.a. "reviews") will go toward feeding a hungry author's soul... mine.**_

_****NEW A/N**__: My personal head-canon on dwarf ages is as follows: because dwarf lifespans are far greater than those of humans, dwarves have slightly longer childhoods. As they mature they age more and more slowly, mainly in physical attributes but somewhat in mental and emotional intelligence as well. You can see how this pans out in the age chart. __**Bolded** numbers representthe human equivalent age, and underlined numbers represent the 'actual' dwarf ages._

**_5_**_ - 5 ... _**_8 -_**_10__ ... _**_12-_**_15__ ..._**_14 -_**_20 ... _**_16 - _**_25 ... _**_18 -_**_40__ ... _**_20 - _**_50__ ..._

_In my mind, since dwarves live for far many years than humans do, a five-year gap between children is not as immense as it would be for humans__. For this reason I do not say that Fili and Kili are 12 and 17 (in human ages), because humans of those ages are developmentally very different from one another. I imagine that Fili and Kili are far closer in emotional and mental childhood intelligence (as well as physical build). In my mind, 20 year old Fili is comparable to a 14 year old human child, and 15 year old Kili is comparable to a 12 year old human child. So! I hope that makes sense to everyone!_

(Boring Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's lovely characters, nor am I receiving monetary profit from their existence in my writing.)


	2. Chapter II

_**A/N: **__Many thanks to all for supporting my humble tale through your reads, favorites, follows, reviews, personal messages, pokes, rabid muses. . . everything. Special thanks goes to my darlin' reviewers __**maplewind, 0ywiththepoodlesalready, StormWarning27, Mia, Elenhin, Autumn, Rowana Renee, Mzzmarie, Kermitty, rowen raven, Purestrongpoem, LiL PriNCeSs Me, Cockapoo, Neocolai, Yippie, **__and __**obviously-not, **__plus a special shout-out to another __**architecture student**__, hurrah! You know who you are! __Reviews are priceless,__ BUT thanks to __everyone__ for __any and all__ kinds of support. (Further story-related comments can be found at the conclusion of this chapter.)_

_My muse – __**The Blue Canary **__– was coaxed out by the lovely responses of you readers and happily flew out of the little birdhouse in my soul. He has been perched contentedly on my shoulder, singing and whispering inspirations to me, though a few times he had to bite my ear to make me get off my lazy derriere and fetch my thesaurus._

_I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

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**Chapter II**

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**"'_L_**_**eave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!**_

_**Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'**_

_**Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore.'"**_

_- Edgar Allan Poe, "The Raven"_

* * *

I draw my arm back stealthily, steadily, my muscles straining painfully from the forced, exaggerated slowness of movement. Concentration is centered on my form; I close one eye and fix its gaze on my target, planning, strategizing, envisioning my goal. For the first time in an hour I am relaxed and calmly focused... or so I tell myself in my head, an endless litany of soothing encouragement that serves as a poor effort to subdue my own temper. Inside I am a seething volcano, temporarily dormant, but ready to blow at any moment; I refuse to acknowledge these feelings, however, as I exhale slowly.

"Easy, sweetheart," I mutter to the little stinger that I am preparing to launch. "Easy, easy. There's no hurry. No hurry at all." I have somehow deluded myself into believing that I am trying to placate my weapon, that somehow it is feeling antsy in my hands and it needs my words to calm itself; there is nothing wrong with me, of course. It is the wood and metal that needs my sympathy, aye, that needs my loving guidance and tender care; that's right.

The taut string grows even tighter, groaning audibly, fighting to snap itself from where it is so expertly held in check by the pointer and middle finger of my right hand. My left hand firmly grips the strip of wood held unmoving before me, the knuckles white from the effort, and my shoulder joint cracks noisily as I finally reach the full extent to which I can pull.

I hold my breath – and with a swift, single motion I move my fingers and release my slender captive.

_Tsss!_

In the wink of an eye my arrow flies impatiently from my bow, shooting straight and true, straight. . . oh, ye gods! – straight to the border of my target, catching its wooden edge and ricocheting and disappearing somewhere into the surrounding foliage, disturbing a few morning doves and sending them scattering from within. Unable to keep my surging emotions in check any longer I explode into a dark and swirling rage, roaring about half a dozen Khudzul curses in quick succession, any one of which would have cost me my hide if I had been in the hearing range of my mother or Thorin; they think that a twelve year old dwarfling is too young to know such language, bah! – a lot they know. I resist the overwhelming urge to hurl my beloved bow to the ground and start jumping on it like a petulant child of four; instead I shove it roughly over my shoulder and stomp to the end of the range to go searching for my errant arrow. I charge into the undergrowth with all the care of a blinded bull, slashing angrily at the leaves and bushes, trying to find the instigator of my fury. Aye, as long as I keep blaming the arrow I don't have to accept the state of my own mind. _The problem does not lie with me._

There is a loud and triumphant cackling above my head, a voice shrill and piercing. I look up with a murderous eye to see a raven perched in some branches high above me, ruffling its feathers and continuing to screech as though it were laughing.

"You accursed creature!" I yell up at it. "This is your doing, isn't it? Out!" I pick up a stone and hurl it up into the towering tree at the object of my distress, an action punctuated by my last, shrieking words: "Go _away_, you foul demon!"

My aim is off and the height is too great; I miss the bird of ill omen by several feet but the stone's loud rustling in the trees is enough to scare the creature into flight. He flutters frantically away and disappears from view, but he does not travel far for I can still hear his plaintive cries from where I stand below. I clench my trembling fingers into fists as I listen to his mocking call from his new, hidden location. All of a sudden I feel so very small and alone out here on the outskirts of the silent forest, the shooting targets like ghostly sentries around me, and my eyesight becomes inexplicably blurry as that familiar lump rises in my throat.

"Evil thing," I grumble in a husky voice, turning back to my previous task as I begin blinking rapidly. My eyelashes grow wet and the water in my eyes stings cold as a gust of winter wind blows abruptly against my face.

It must be the raven's fault that I cannot hit a single bull's-eye today. It's his evil spirit that robbed me of my inner peace and caused my hands to shake. The arrow, too, is responsible; surely the feathers are faulty, bent somehow, or applied poorly on the shaft, upsetting the airflow and wrecking its sense of direction as it flies from my bow. It was the arrow last time I came to the range, too – or was it the sunlight? Aye, the sunlight; it was shining in my eyes so brightly it caused enormous distraction, yes; and the time before that? Well, Fíli was upsetting me with his chatter; his attempts to coax me into some idle conversation shattered my concentration and prevented me from having a good performance. . . And the time before _that_?

With a little snarl I snatch up the arrow from where it has been lying hidden beneath a fern leaf. I glance over it with a trained eye, examining the condition of the shaft, the feathers... and it's in perfect condition, albeit a little muddy from where it'd landed. There's nothing wrong with it, I realize, and my throat constricts with the knowledge of it. _There is something wrong with me, after all._

I never miss these targets – never. My arrows usually strike them well, often landing dead-center. Why, I haven't had such poor rounds of shooting since I first started using a bow years ago when I was a much smaller, younger lad. I plop down on a damp log and cradle the dirtied arrow in my hands, turning it over and over as my discouragement suddenly overwhelms me. Must I be a failure in this, too?

Bending over, I hold my head in my hands, refusing to accept the thought. Archery is my skill. _My_ skill. It has always been the one thing that I can do better than any other dwarf around these parts, whether they be descendants of Erebor or natives of these Blue Mountains. Even at my young age I am the _best._ Years ago, when my small stature prevented me from partaking in the active training in swordplay that the other dwarflings – including my own brother – were able to engage in, Uncle Thorin came to my rescue. He did not allow me to succumb to despair over the fact that I could not safely wield even a dwarfling-sized sword, or that I tired too quickly under the ferocity of such training; it wasn't my fault, he insisted. I had been born prematurely to my mother, Dis, in the middle of one of our fiercest winters. Thorin knew that my body needed a few years yet to catch up in strength. Meantime, he recognized a rare sharpness in my eyes, lightness in my fingers, and impressive hand-eye coordination that hinted at an equally rare skill – that is, rare for dwarves – and with great confidence he gave me my first bow and set of arrows and set about teaching me.

I had never known what an accomplished archer my uncle was, but he revealed his secret talents to me; after a couple years he brought in a skilled hunter to aide in my training, for my talent was surpassing his own. Soon my talent was exceeding even that of the hunter's; still, we trained heavily like this for a long time, even after I grew nearly to Fíli's height and gained enough strength to participate in the weapons' training with the others. I impressed Thorin by quickly catching up with the other lads and proving to be respectfully skilled with the sword, though not as greatly as Fíli, but even then he refused to relent in my archery practice. My uncle knew that he had discovered something special within me and he was determined to perfect it.

Oh, the others laughed, scoffed; even the grown-ups raised their eyebrows and whispered between themselves when they thought Thorin wasn't looking. Archery is something rather frowned upon, something seen as too Elvish to ever be taken seriously. Usually the only dwarves who even know how to handle a bow are the hunters, for even the greatest nay-sayers couldn't deny the usefulness of shooting a round of arrows where even a hunting spear could not reach, and dwarves love their meat. However, for archery to be used in the art of war? In _battle__?_ Here they would chuckle among themselves about those "flimsy wooden twigs tied with string", or instead scowl and mutter curses about the Elves; those "pointy-eared monsters" could keep their cursed weapons of war to themselves, they'd say.

Thorin dismissed them all, though, together with their protests, glares, and friendly suggestions. I sometimes wonder if he really knew what he was doing at the time, whether he was truly certain that I could become an extraordinary archer or if he was pursuing the matter purely because everyone else was so set against it. I suspect that it's a bit of both. He always had faith in my talents, more faith than even I had in myself, and he was determined to prove to me and the rest of the community that a nephew of Thorin Oakenshield could be anything and accomplish anything that he wanted to. My uncle is stubborn even by dwarfish standards, but – oh! He showed them all! – he shamed every last one of them in the end. I shall never forget the day. It was only a few months ago. . .

* * *

_I accompanied my uncle, by his request, to the adult training grounds where the warriors and other local dwarves had gathered for a series of competitive matches that serve for them to showcase their latest skills and weapons. There is a great amount of boasting, chest-puffing, and semi-jocular fist-shaking that is followed by mock-battles and individual matches alike, all a part of the testosterone-driven desire to prove who is the greater dwarf._

_Thorin's presence is more for appearances for no one would dare to challenge their own prince, their 'King under the Mountain', except for burly Dwalin and a couple of Thorin's other close companions. For the most part Thorin simply offers his good friends a small, wicked smile and with twinkling eyes promises a match with them another day. He remains poised at the front and center of the field, his hands folded behind his back as he watches them in mostly silence. I quietly stand beside him, confused as to the purpose of my presence, while I somewhat shyly observe the grown-ups as they clash their weapons together and roar an assortment of challenges, insults, war cries, and victory cheers. _

_This goes on for the better part of an hour. I am growing impatient standing here for so long – though I am enjoying the spectacle of the matches – and I am coming close to questioning my uncle about the matter when they suddenly begin dragging out the targets for javelin throwing. Conventional, circular targets as well as the more crude straw figures are brought out, and this is when Thorin finally looks down at me with a suspicious twinkle in his eye. Before I can wonder what he is planning the dwarves have begun arguing loudly about who can reach the farthest and most difficult target before they are suddenly interrupted. _

"_I imagine," Thorin bellows out to them, "That it would be easier for you poor fellows if you were as accomplished at archery as you are with your mouths!" He pauses briefly as all heads turn towards him and the dwarves stare, a mixture of surprise and bafflement on their faces. Thorin continues: "For all your boasts, your bulky spears and lengthy javelins can only perform so well. If you had arrows instead of words you surely would hit more targets." My uncle smiles at them with such rare public joviality that the others appear to struggle with amusement and suspicion, but they eventually give in to the former. They return his apparent humor with a mixture of smiles and smirks._

"_My lord Thorin," says one, "I can assure you that my javelin can speak for my talent and my mouth alike." He pauses, grinning at his companions and guffawing merrily as he continues. "I do not need the humble skill of a hunter to prove that I can stuff myself with as much rabbit as these others can of empty boasts!"_

_At this, the entire company of dwarves bursts into hearty roars of laughter that is quite deafening. One of them forgets himself and suddenly points at me, crying: "Aye, leave it to the likes of him to dress my table while I and my sons spear the hearts of orcs with our real weapons!"_

_I can feel my face flush with mixed anger and humiliation while the others fall into silence abruptly, some gasping audibly at the dwarf's thoughtless indiscretion. Even his own laughter dies away as he suddenly realizes he has just insulted Thorin Oakenshield's own nephew to their leader's very face, daring to utter the unspoken thoughts of many a dwarf there. They look toward Thorin, paling, waiting apprehensively for the storm to erupt._

_To their surprise, Thorin doesn't bat an eye. Startlingly enough he laughs outright, albeit with a bit of a harsh edge to it._

"_Indeed?" he queries, raising an eyebrow but still not revealing even a hint of temper. "You'd better improve your aim, then, before you commit yourself and your kin to such an unlikely event." Thorin chuckles, and looks about at the others. "T'would be a shame if you were to miss at such close range."_

_Laughter erupts once more, nervously, flowering to full power only when my uncle joins in with them. The offending dwarf blushes scarlet and mutters something under his breath as the others slap him on the back before returning to their earlier task of weighing each other's mettle. My own pride still smarts something awful and I cannot understand Thorin's shockingly light response. Does he, too, think I am worthy only to keep my peers supplied with food to fill their greedy bellies? Just when I think I am on the brink of utter wretchedness my uncle lays his hand on my shoulder with a firm grip, and I look up at him questioningly. His humored expression has dropped from him like a cloak, leaving his face set in flint; his grey-blue eyes are hard and glittering, but a spark lies therein that rekindles my age-long trust in him._

"_Time for us to show them, boy," he murmurs to me, a mischievous smirk beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. He bends down close and begins whispering to me, his beard tickling my ear as a smile slowly finds its way across my face; I can barely resist the urge to chortle with delight at my uncle's plan. Finally he stands upright. I start walking down the field and stop a number of yards from where the dwarves are gathering at the target lines, and I wait, unnoticed._

_I observe three dwarves reach their arms back and hurl their javelins toward the rounded targets; all three hit admirably close to the center and there are hoots and cries of approval. Another three contestants aim and throw at three more targets, these ones much further away than the first set. Two javelins hit the middle rings of their targets, but one manages to hit bulls-eye. There is further applauding, further shouts of approval..._

_I look back at Thorin, who nods to me. With that simple permission to proceed I return my gaze to the others, reaching over my shoulder for my bow and an arrow from my quiver, notching the one to the other and assuming the correct stance. . ._

_The dwarves are just preparing to walk across the range and fetch their javelins when one of them gasps and jumps aside as something whistles past his ear. There is an audible thud as the arrow hits the bull's-eye of the first target, noisily scraping the iron point of the javelin head beside it. Everyone falls into a pronounced hush at the sight._

_Another thud. Another arrow hits the second target; a bull's-eye. Just as rapidly comes a third arrow, landing perfectly centered on the bull's eye._

_Over a dozen shocked faces turn around in search of the mysterious archer, their surprise plainly increasing when they realize it was only a child all the time, and with some mixed awe and disbelief they eye the impressive distance at which I stand away from them and the javelin targets. I smile sweetly at them and notch another arrow, for I am not finished yet. There are the further targets I have yet to address._

Tsss!_ A fourth arrow flies and all eyes follow it; it strikes the bull's eye of the fourth target. A fifth arrow; bull's-eye. _

Tsss-cht!_ The sixth and final arrow flies swiftly through the air towards the center of the target... and lands dead-center on the hilt of the javelin already occupying the spot. Having run out of both targets and arrows I stand down, lowering my bow and taking a breath, chin held high._

_The silence is deafening; too stunned are the dwarves for words, it seems. An odd number of sparrows who come chasing one another through the air provides the only source of sound. I am aware of Thorin's sudden presence behind me, and encouraged by the added strength of his company to my overwhelming success I at long last venture to speak._

"_I do not settle for dressing your humble table, Sir," I call out firmly, my young voice ringing in the still air."As an heir of Durin I think I shall be rather too busy protecting you and your sons from those orcs, shooting the creatures down with my arrows before they are within your weapons' range."_

_After that I say no more. My bow has spoken for me today and it is enough. I look up at Thorin and he wraps his arm solidly about my shoulders, returning my beaming expression with a small smile of his own, his eyes shining with pride. I have never seen him look at me quite like this before and my heart thumps wildly in my chest; everything inside of me is singing. He starts to lead me off but I pause for a moment._

"_I must fetch my arrows, Uncle Thorin."_

"_Nay, leave them be," he says nonchalantly, ignoring my raised eyebrows and looking out at the awestruck, shamed-faced dwarves beyond. "It'll give those foolish folk something to think about. You can make new ones, better ones." He turns back to me and smiles kindly, more brightly than I could ever remember seeing before, and he suddenly ruffles my dark hair with the greatest of affection. He chuckles. "You need the practice, anyway."_

_As we walk off the field together I know instinctually that no one will again ever question Thorin regarding the wisdom of my first choice of weapon, nor shall I ever be viewed by the other dwarves the same way. I have won their respect._

* * *

I gently rub my thumb over the dirtied arrow head as pent-up tears of frustration slip from my eyes and traverse silently over my cheeks. That was undoubtably the proudest day of my life, the day when I proved myself to our community as well as to myself. Thorin had always known that I had great potential that was just waiting to be harnessed and trained. He hadn't given up on me. _Not as he surely has now._

Yet, all these months since that event I had lived under the false impression that one need only prove himself once, show the world once what he is made of, and his reputation is established for life; that he need only uphold that reputation and he shall continue to be accepted and respected among his peers. _Foolish boy,_ I can hear that little voice hiss._ You know nothing of the world._

Over the past few weeks I have come to the realization that there will always be those who question, who whisper in hushed tones, and who will catcall openly, mockingly, egging for a fight; those who hate without reason, who despise without cause, who spit and laugh in one's own face for a trifling. A wise dwarf would know to walk away, would know to avoid such situations or would not hesitate to call his friends for aide if trouble were unavoidable. Aye, that would be the wise thing to do, especially if one had confidence in his own abilities and did not feel the irrational desire to prove something. _But some of us are not very wise, are we?_

The arrow shakes in my trembling hands and I close my fingers around it. Another realization dawns on me and draws a tiny whimper from my throat: I cannot shoot as I once did because I am losing confidence in myself – and if I do not have a breakthrough soon my confidence may fail and die altogether, leaving me unable to shoot, taking away the one thing that makes me strong and leaving me with nothing.

I angrily swipe the tears away and rise to my feet with strengthened resolve, ignoring the raven that still jeers at me from its leafy haven somewhere far above. T'is too late for regrets; this has gotten personal, I silently reaffirm. I remove the quiver and bow from my back and set it down by the log, reaching for my sword and sparring rod before walking over to the sparring targets.

Preparing myself, I stare down the straw target with rod in hand, breathing slowly and with determination. In the next moment I scream a battle cry and take a running launch at the figure...

Enough is enough. _The line must be drawn __**here.**_

* * *

**To be continued. . .**

* * *

_**A/N: **Darn that muse of mine. Wait, hush, I didn't mean it, wait!-_

"Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch, Who watches over you; Make a little birdhouse in your soul..."

_**Oi. Please feed **__The Blue Canary__** before I go crazy** from him singing his theme song overandoverandover again! __Besides, I need all the help with the next installment that I can get and I think I'll be lost without my feathered friend._

_Yes, yes, my portrayal of archery, javelin-throwing, and a small boy's skill is rather exaggerated and somewhat unrealistic (believe me, I've handled a bow), but this is __my__ story, it __**is **__called '__fiction'__ for a reason, and it's Kíli who we're talking about here. . . Besides, dwarves are full of surprises, aren't they? ;-)_

_I know, forgive me. I'm drawing the events out... I can hear you all thinking: WHAT is Kíli's problem? Well, you'll just have to stay tuned to find out, won't you... *grin* Hey, it's a fairly simple plot and it needs all the meat I can fatten it up with._

_To my guest reviewer, __**Mia**__: There is indeed another Hobbit story I read a while back which mentioned Thorin's use of corporal punishment (I cannot recall the name or I would mention it here). While some may find this idea offensive, I cannot imagine him *not* finding it necessary to take his nephews 'to hand', so to speak, at least once in a blue moon, because of the danger that their rather rambunctious and mischievous personalities would surely lead them to. Surely they could only take so much lecturing, so many restrictions, before their little hearts would burst of boredom and they would all but jump off the first cliff they could find. If a little soreness would save them from breaking their young necks and would leave an adequate impression, then I have no doubt that Thorin would not hesitate to accommodate them. *snicker*_

_I am somewhat irked when writers refer to Fíli and Kíli being __**"grounded" **__as punishment (versus "restriction" or some other term). In fact, I want to slam my head repetitively on my keyboard. My reason? The term "grounded" originated from the __**1930s**__ as a disciplinary action meted out to World War II pilots, denying them the privilege to fly. I find it impossible to picture Thorin bellowing out a modern [airplane!] term for parental punishment to his nephews in the fictional land of Middle Earth. Such an image, to me, is as believable as Thorin hollering "That's the last straw, boys! SIT ON THE NAUGHTY STEP!" (The Nanny, anyone?) I mean, com'on. Let's get real, folks. _

_Anyway, that was a lot of rambling. Thank you for reading and please keep your eyes open for the next update!_

(Boring disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's lovely characters, nor am I receiving monetary profit from their existence in my writing.)


	3. Chapter III

_**A/N:**__ Ah, reviews, reviews... basking in the lovely light of reviews. Thank you __**Purestrongpoem, chestry007, Isildur's Heiress, LiL PriNCeSs Me, Cockapoo, iamafanoftoomanythings, Kermitty, VictoireAgathon, Autumn, Kíli's girl forever,rowen raven, Mia, Guest, Cherry82, obviously-not,maplewind, Eagle of the South, ForeverInAbyss,**__ and __**Gladoo89**__! You each get a shiny gold star on your forehead._

_Thanks to the reviews and various personal messages I received, __**The Blue Canary**__ was uplifted into a very cheery mood and deemed me worthy of receiving his sage-like wisdom. The birdseed and (theft of) the cupcake from Cockapoo have also greatly contributed to his happy disposition..._

_**Nalbal ducks suddenly as a blue blur narrowly misses her and whizzes past her head**_

_However, I don't think sugar and birds mix well. In this case it produced an extremely hyper creature and the sudden addition of an Edgar Allan Poe quote in the first chapter._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter III**

* * *

"_**Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow**_

'_**Twere better than the cold reality**_

_**Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,**_

_**And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,**_

_**A chaos of deep passion, from his birth."**_

_- Edgar Allan Poe, "Dreams"_

* * *

"Khazâd! Khazâd!" My voice rings out in a terrible war cry as I engage in battle, weapons clashing as my heart beats steadily faster like an ominous war drum.

Well... maybe it _would've_ been terrible if my voice were deeper. I have yet to experience the voice change that dwarfling lads do when they reach a certain age, and I still possess the purer, somewhat higher pitch of a younger lad. In any case my voice reaches impressive volumes as I bravely hack at Dwalin's blunted sword with my own. I strike again and again, throwing all my strength into the shots.

_Ching! Sshhring! Slisss!_

Just when I think I'm making progress Dwalin's arm takes a surprising swing and his sword circles around mine, catching it in a smooth blow and swiftly striking it from my hand. I watch breathlessly as my sword clatters onto the hard-packed, muddied ground far from my reach.

"Tut-tut-tut," Dwalin clucks disapprovingly, pointing his sword at my chest as I look up at him sheepishly. "Now you'd be dead. Laddie, ye seem tah forget that yer a dwarf and not a cat with multiple lives to spare in yer back pocket. You've only got one and ye've got to take better care of it."

I sigh dejectedly and murmur, "Sorry, mister Dwalin."

Thorin's old friend lowers his sword and gestures with a tattooed hand for me to retrieve my own weapon. I stoop to pick it up and as I tentatively return the tall dwarf shakes his head, dark eyes fixed on me, and I brace myself for the brutal critique – his word for _cutting-you-down-to-size_ – that is sure to follow.

"Ye've got to channel that fightin' rage of yours into more productive shots, not go throwin' around your weight like a half-wit troll," he scolds, staring hard at me as I forlornly meet his gaze. "You keep leaving yerself so open I could use ye fer a doormat. Balance yer offense with yer defense, boy."

I listen patiently, but once he is finished speaking I counter: "But, sir; I was trying to be more forceful, to surprise and overwhelm my opponent with more strength than simple tact. Doesn't that have a place, too?"

Before I can continue I am interrupted by a sudden eruption of convulsing laughter from the sidelines. Both Dawlin and I turn to see my golden-haired brother alternating between vicious giggles and rib-splitting guffaws, his body bent over from the sheer force of his mirth.

"And what's the matter with you?" I finally snap, glowering at him.

Fíli looks up from his doubled-over position on the ground, his eyes sparkling with good-natured merriment. "You, overwhelm _mister Dwalin _with_sheer strength_, Kíli?" He gasps for air, still laughing.

That may be how I had said it but I didn't quite mean it that way. My face flushes pink with embarrassment and I feel rather silly now, for of course it is far beyond my ability to overwhelm our beloved instructor with much more than frustration or boredom; I have my doubts as to whether even Uncle Thorin could physically overpower him. Dwalin is a massive person, taller than any dwarf I know and extremely muscular. Add to that his tattoos (which I believe, despite anything that Fíli says, must lend Dwalin some kind of magical power) and he is all but invincible. Still, I was trying to make a point on strategy and I am irritated that I had to be made the subject of my brother's joviality. _Aye, just rub in the fact that I am weak._

"Oh, Fíli!– just be quiet, already!" I breath out in sharp exasperation.

"That's enough, sonny," Dwalin drawls sternly at Fíli. "I understand what yer brother means. No need tah make fun of him."

Fíli quiets gradually and mumbles something like _I meant nothing by it, _and _I wasn't making fun,_ but neither of us pay much attention to him and Dwalin turns to me.

"Strength is a battle tactic in and of itself, Kíli, and like any tactic, one cannot rely solely upon it. Abandonin' all other tactics to favor one? No. Such a thing makes you predictable, and once yer predictable to your enemy, yer dead. And then, if you resort to brute strength with complete abandon and hack away at your enemy haphazardly," he says, raising an amused eyebrow at me as I shrink under his gaze, "Then that can only mean that one, yer inexperienced; two, yer a fool; or three, yer already losing the battle... or maybe all three."

I frown, puzzled, a deeper question still unanswered. "But, mister Dwalin," I ask slowly, uncertainly, "What if your opponent is very much stronger than you and pure form and tactics aren't enough against his onslaught? What then?"

Dwalin smiles at me and gruffly replies: "Battle is a matter of form and tactics, young one; when form leaves the battle that is where butchery begins, and that is not something you need to be thinking about now. If the strength of one's opponent is too great then one must simply find another tactic until it is successful. Fighting is an art, laddie."

I have been looking for a more specific answer, a tangible solution to an equally tangible problem but I do not have a chance to ask more questions; Dwalin nods to me to begin before roaring into action and we soon resume from where we had left off practicing. He believes in answering questions more through experience than simply by answer, but I find this particular problem difficult to understand. I try to ponder his explanation; however, as the blows rain down on me and I struggle to retaliate, my mind can't help but wander back and place itself in another situation, one very fresh and real, and one that is soon destined to repeat itself if I can't figure out this knotty little problem of mine.

As it is, I still believe strength to be the key, though I do not know how to implement it. Our swords continue to clash and my mind continues to hum with dismay.

* * *

"Ow-ow-ow! _Ouch!_" I can't help but groan and hiss through clenched teeth as she deftly pours the burning alcohol over the slice on my arm. "Aw, Mum, do you have to do that?"

"Hold still, Kíli," my mother replies firmly, eventually putting down the bottle and reaching for a soft cloth. "You know as well as I do that's how we ensure this won't get infected."

Trying not to pay attention to the sizzling sound from the rubbing alcohol as it eats my arm alive, I make my usual reply. "But it _burns_ so," I whine slightly, wincing as she wipes at the spot before tying a small bandage around it.

"If you were more careful you wouldn't get hurt at all," she chides gently as she finally clears away her tools of healing and leaves me to lick my wounds in peace. When she exits the room I frantically fan my hand over the bandage in a pathetic attempt to cool the terrible stinging underneath; dwarflings learn how to fight the hard way, and even blunted weapons can cause damage. As the alcohol continues to tingle within my wound I rebuke myself yet again for my carelessness.

"It's not my fault that mister Dwalin has an entire century's advantage of skill over me," I call out in protest, soon giving up my futile attempts to alleviate my discomfort and instead choose to jump off of the stool. "I do my best, y'know."

My mother laughs softly from her hidden location. "Of course," is all she says. "I only wish..."

She trails off and I frown slightly, heading out of the kitchen in search of her. "Only wish what?"

Just as I come out into the hallway she appears and we intercept one another. She stops, sighing a little with obvious reluctance, and looks down at me with glimmering eyes and a smile. There is a shadow on her face that saddens her features and makes her seem so much more worn, aged. "I suppose I just wish that you'd try and do your best to – " She pauses, reaching out and pushing a few strands of my hair behind my ear. "– to avoid _other_ trouble. Not to... seek it out, so to speak."

My heart abruptly sinks and falls so hard in my chest I can almost hear its painful thud.

"Aw, Mum," I answer her softly. I look up into her careworn face and feel guiltier than ever. "I'm trying, I really am. Please believe me."

She seems to be shaken out of her mournful thoughts for she blinks, as though waking up, and dons a larger, more confident smile as she nods. "Oh, I know, sweetheart, I know," she affirms with forced cheerfulness, patting my shoulder lovingly before she walks down the hall.

As I watch her go I feel all the size of a lonely housefly.

* * *

My burning lungs throb steadily within my chest as I plop down on the yellowed grass, reminding me for the umpteenth time how Dwalin had once warned me that gasping in cold air is bad for the lungs; one must manage one's breathing more efficiently when training in frigid temperatures, he'd said. I wheeze, frustrated – oh, sure; one more thing that I can't seem to do right, but it's easier said than done. Sighing, I dig the heels of my shoes into a patch of icy snow that has been packed into the earth, and leaning forward I poke at it with the hilt of my sheathed sword, allowing myself a few minutes to breath and let my mind go blank if only for a little while.

"Hello, there," suddenly calls out the unmistakable voice of my brother. "How's life?"

I take a moment to reflect on how it seems the entire world has taken to sneaking up and startling me at every opportunity, leaving me in an almost permanent state of nervous surprise. Eventually I grunt moodily in response to my brother's hail, not feeling a sufficient amount of strength or motivation to give a more descriptive reply. While I instantly feel comforted by Fíli's arrival – for, despite everything I might say or do, my heart aches terribly for his company – I rather wish he hadn't come. I can better deal with my battling thoughts when I am left to my lonesome, without the added grief of guilt that always comes with his presence. I don't turn around but I can feel his gaze settle on the back of my tousle-haired head.

"It's like that, huh?" he chuckles. "Well. Maybe _this_ is why." I hear the gentle, muted clunking of wood against wood and my curiosity gets the better of me, forcing me to turn about and see what it is my brother has brought with him. I immediately wish I hadn't.

"You left these at home," Fíli announces cheerfully, holding up my bow in one hand and arrow-filled quiver in the other, "So I thought that I'd bring them to you."

I stare blankly at him. "Fee, it just so happens I left them home on purpose. But –" I look away, returning my gaze to the practice field beyond. "– thanks anyway."

"Nonsense," Fíli laughs gaily, apparently taking no notice of my glum countenance. "You never leave home without these when you plan on training."

Despite my best intentions I can feel my mercurial emotions of late beginning to simmer. "Has it ever occurred to you that I train in disciplines_other_ than archery?" I tersely reply. "I am not so one-dimensional as you seem to think."

"Tsk-tsk. Not only as it occurred to me, Brother, but it lies ever at the forefront of my memory. And I know that you are far from one-dimensional." Even with my back turned to him I can see the characteristic smirk on his fair face; I can hear it when he speaks. "You are more multi-dimensional than a hundred-caret diamond sparkling in a room lit with a thousand candles."

Even with my darker emotions continually on the rise I can't help but smile at his comment. Though the words are rich with drollery the fondness there is unmistakable.

"Then why, pray tell," I ask him, sighing long-sufferingly, "Did you insist on bringing them when I purposefully left them behind?"

"Because you always take them with you," Fíli insists, still sounding abominably cheerful.

Is he not listening to a word I say? How much more plainly can I speak my mind? I grit my teeth and do my utmost not to allow my explosive temper to get the better of me and rain down on my hapless brother. "But," I take a deep breath, biting out my words, "I **did **_**not**_... take them... _today_."

"I know!" is the blithe response. "That's why I brought them for you, Kíli. I would not allow such an obvious oversight to affect your afternoon of training."

"It was not an oversight!" I finally burst out in annoyance, scrambling to my feet and turning to face down my ridiculously idiotic sibling. "For Mahal's sake, Fíli!– I do not _want_ them!"

"Nonsense," Fíli repeats, though he raises his eyebrows this time.

My eyes widen with incredulity. "**It is**_** not**_** nonsense!**" I rage loudly at him, pounding my foot on the frozen ground repetitively in acute frustration; surely my brother has gone mad today. "Don't you think that I know when I don't want my own bow and arrows? By Durin, can't you give me enough credit to think _that _far for myself?"

"I don't think you _do_ know," the other replies in an even tone, not beaming with unadulterated gaiety as before, but yet not visibly angered or upset by my reaction. Fíli's expression is relaxed and unperturbed; his voice is that of a commanding elder brother who believes he has the upper hand and cannot be contested. "I think that you're allowing your own problem to become your master and dictate your very actions."

I gape at him blankly, caught off-guard by his statement. All I can do is splutter angrily. "W-What are you talking about?"

"I'll tell you what I'm talking about," Fíli answers crisply yet calmly. "I'm talking about the little brother who discovered a unique talent years ago. I'm talking about the little brother who found a niche in this world and latched onto it with the ferocity of cougar and who, ever since he discovered said niche, never sets foot outside of his home to train without his quiver on his back and his bow over his shoulder. I'm talking about the little brother who has encountered a problem that's eating him alive, who is beginning to allow said problem to rule over his life and change the person his big brother knows and cares about. This little brother is very, very confused and needs someone to give him a cold slap of reality to wake him up and set him to rights. This little brother won't let anyone help him but his big brother is tired of standing by and doing nothing, and he refuses to idly watch his own kin sink into this quagmire of misery any further. _**Now–**_" Fíli barks at me sharply while holding out my bow and quiver in one hand, his gentle face growing dark and stern, "– **Take** your weapons and **go**_** train **_with them."

To say that I am stunned by his declaration would be an understatement; I am shocked. As my older brother Fíli often takes it upon himself to order me about or offer me brotherly advice, but I cannot remember him ever speaking to me in such a firmly determined, urgent manner. This is not flippant bossiness. He means every word of it.

I am at a loss for how to reply for a short while and I struggle to gather my wits. "I'm... I-I'm currently engaged with another weapon," I reply with a stutter, clinging to my defiance to the very last.

Fíli remains unfazed. "And you would neglect one skill for another? Hogwash," he declares, glaring at me in a manner that is impressively reminiscent of Uncle Thorin. "Now _take_ your bow before I smack you over your fool head with it, and _get_ your backside over to that range_immediately_." His blue eyes flash dangerously, plainly leaving no room for argument.

I pause for an interminable length of time to return Fíli's stony gaze with a scowl of my own, willing my glare to burn holes into him and set him aflame. Vaguely disappointed to see that even after my smoldering glare there is nary a whisper of smoke rising from him, I regretfully feel myself caving to his imperious demands of me and I grudgingly snatch the weapons from his outstretched hand.

"Fine," I snap. Without another word or glance I spin round and walk down the slope towards the shooting targets. If I had hoped that Fíli would go home after his little speech and leave me to cease and desist from my practice when he was out of earshot, well, my little bubble was soundly burst; I can almost physically feel him fall into step with me, his soft clouds of breath puffing in the cold air and mingling with my own.

All too soon we have descended down the slope to the range and stop along the shooting line. With the greatest of reluctance I throw down my sword and sparring rod (with purposeful carelessness, just to annoy Fíli, and pretending not to notice when he picks them up and puts them aside properly), strap my quiver on my back and pull out an arrow. As I notch it to my bow I pause in my movements, casting my brother a grumpy side-glance.

"This is ridiculous," I grouch.

"No, _you're_ ridiculous," he replies, his smirk returning. "Now shut up and shoot."

There is silence as I pause further and make no move to continue. I stare out at the targets looming beyond and I can already taste the bitter flavor of defeat.

"Fíli..." I venture slowly.

"Yes?" he replies patiently.

"Please don't make me," I murmur, my dark, despairing eyes meeting his bright, confident ones.

He frowns and tilts his head to the side ever so slightly, vaguely reminding me of a curious pup. "What do you mean?"

"It's... it's too embarrassing. I can't... can't shoot." The words barely whisper past my lips.

At first it looks as though Fíli is going to laugh and deny such a ridiculous statement but something seems to stop him. He regards my long face and slumped shoulders and says nothing. There is a stretch of silence before he finally replies, albeit uncertainly: "T'is your mouth to the gods' ears," is all he says. "It's your call."

This is not the response I expected and certainly not one I would've liked to hear and the baleful glare I flash at him tells of that much. Snarling, I whip up my bow and aim. I fire...

... and I miss the target completely.

In my still unmatched speed I notch another arrow and shoot towards the same target. It hits the very edge of the target. Another arrow; it hits an outer ring. I grab another arrow, angry tears threatening to overflow, and another arrow, and another, then another, until my quiver is completely empty. The target is riddled with my arrows all over the outermost rings; their landing points are inconsistent, some lining the top, some scattered along the bottom; in short, they are everywhere. Still more arrows lie on the snow from where they ricocheted or missed the target completely.

I stand there, refusing to turn and meet Fíli's gaze, my chest rising and falling rapidly under the surging pressure of my agitation. In the ensuing silence I take deep breaths but it is as if the great gulps of air fuel the fire that is burning inside of me, threatening to flare out of control at any moment.

"Can you _see?_" I yell angrily, feeling more upset than I have allowed myself to feel in a long time. "Do you _see_ why I didn't bring my bow today?" My voice cracks miserably but I don't stop, so far gone am I in the surging waves of my battered emotions. "I can't shoot. I can't_shoot__**,**_ Fíli. My hands tremble, my bow shakes, my arrows choose their own paths and it's as though I've lost all sense of control. This one thing... this _one_ thing that I have been able to call my own is no longer under my authority. This one thing that made my differences special is all but lost; this one thing that made me _**Me**_ is fading faster than I can comprehend."

I pause and gasp for breath as my throat chokes up terribly, my vision completely blurring. I still stare straight ahead of me toward the targets that I can no longer see, determined not to lose what precious little remains of my self-control, and I clench my bow in an impossibly tight grip; the fingers on my right hand hurt and my whole arm shakes from the pressure. Though all I can see is a distorted world of grey through my waterlogged eyes, through my peripheral vision I can make out a spot of gold approaching me; I want to run, want to move away from him but my feet might as well have been made of clay.

"I keep trying," I cry in an anguished voice, the dam breaking. "I keep trying, and trying, and trying. I can't win, Fíli. I just can't win. For all the hard work and determination, for all the so-called fighting spirit and unyielding stubbornness, as you tell me, I'm getting nowhere."

My gasps for air are now accented by uncontrollable sobs of exhaustion and despair, and as I struggle to speak I feel Fíli's arm wrap firmly around me and his other hand place itself softly on my opposite shoulder. I shut my eyes before I can see his face and don't even care when that action spills all of the water out of my eyes and onto my cold cheeks.

"I'm not getting any better. _Oh_," my voice is self-mocking, "if only I was _stronger_, sure; if only I was _older _and _bigger_ and all that rot. I can't help any of that, except my own weakness." I give a wet laugh. "Aulë, if only I was mister Dwalin and I could just crack their stupid skulls open and call it a day. If, if, if. I'm tired of ifs. I'm tired of failure. I'm just plain _tired._" My head falls forward, my chin against my chest, and I can feel the hot tears flowing freely now. "Oh,_ Fíli_. I-I just don't know what I'm doing wrong."

My brother doesn't say anything right away, but as I collapse into a pathetic mass of mewling misery he turns me around firmly and envelops me in a tight hug, allowing me to cry my heart out on his shoulder.

"We'll work it out, little brother," he says with conviction. "It's all gonna be alright, one way or another."

"But how?" I wail miserably, my voice muffled against his coat. "I _have_ to do this myself, Fíli. I just have to. If I let you or anyone else come to my rescue then it'll always be that way." I hiccup, my whole body trembling. "It's gotta be me who rescues myself but with every step I take it's like I'm getting more bogged down, sucked in and pulled under. I just... I just don't know anymore. I feel so pathetic a-and uselessly weak. It's no good, Fíli; it's no good at all," I lament, taking another shuddering breath. "_I'm_ no good."

Fíli pulls away abruptly and holds me at arm's length in a vice-like grip.

"No!" he exclaims. "**Never** say that! Look at me, Kíli; _look_ at me," he insists, waiting until I raise my tear-stained face. "You are _not_ pathetic," he says sharply, giving me a little shake. "Nor are you useless, or weak, or no good. What you're going through is awful but it's not because of any existing failure of character."

He pulls me close once more and bends forward, leaning his forehead against mine, and he shuts his eyes. "They're poisoning your mind, Kíli," he says quietly, earnestly. "It's like a poisoned arrow: the first affliction is the arrow itself, when you see it for what it is and you know what's happening to you. The second, worse affliction is the poison, where reality becomes so warped and hopelessly disarranged that you don't even know what's going on. You become so focused on the searing pain and what it's doing to you that you can't even think to wrench the arrow out." He breathes a sigh. "You've got to stop. Don't listen to them anymore, squirrel. Pull them out of your side and toss them away like so much rubbish, and there's a way to do it. It'll happen, for it must."

Through red-rimmed eyes I look into my brother's weary face and smile every so slightly. "I... I hope I can believe you're right, Fee, because I don't know what's right or real, now," I say in a hoarse voice.

He opens his eyes and grasps the back of my neck, giving an encouraging squeeze. A knowing smile creases his own face. "Believe it, Brother," he replies decisively, "Because I know I'm right, and I think part of you knows it, too."

I have no answer for that; my mouth is dry and my face is cold from my own tears. I look away and sniff the air as I catch the scent of smoking tobacco drifting in over the breeze. I turn and scan the area beyond the trees and the shooting range but see no one, though I could've sworn it smelled like it was from Thorin's own pipe. The call of home is suddenly very strong and I realize how terribly tired I feel; Fíli must be able to see it in my face for he picks up my weapons with one hand and takes my arm with the other.

"Come, squirrel," he murmurs affectionately. "Let's go home to our fire."

As he leads me on I almost feel as though I'd rather be young and small forever, living in a world where big brothers and warm hearths can solve anything, even if it is for just a little while.

* * *

_**To be continued...**_

* * *

_**A/N: **__The Blue Canary is worn out from all the drama in this chapter. He has puffed up into a ball and tucked his head under his wing; he refuses to wake up. Please entice him with some reviews and nom-noms?_

_To my guests!..._

_**Mia:**__ *chuckle* Sorry if I scared you with my somewhat formal response. I realized later that it may have been a little unnerving to have singled out a guest reviewer for such a long and detailed explanation (though it was also for the benefit of others)... *sheepish grin* But I am glad you enjoyed my "history lesson"! Thank you for the lovely review for this latest chapter; I had a lot of fun with the imagery of chapter II._

_**Guest:**__ I wholeheartedly agree. I find those type of stories very distasteful and I avoid them. Yes, I think that when Fíli and Kíli are "teenagers" (the dwarven equivalent, anyhow), Thorin would address the issue differently. I came across another story once (on another site) where Thorin was at his wit's end and was so angered that he grabbed them each by the scruff of the neck and banged their heads together as hard as he could (just remember, of course, that dwarves theoretically have very thick skulls and no damage would ensue from such an action). I thought it was both humorous and believable._

_**Cherry82**__: Gosh, thank you! *insert shy, Jimmy-Stewart-type mumbling here*_

_Latest announcement, friends: I have just flown out of my sweet home Chicago and gone back to university. I actually finished this chapter Saturday evening– the night before I left– but didn't get a chance to publish it (I actually made revisions on a printed copy while on the plane). Of course this means that as my insanely demanding schedule begins I will be very, very busy (architecture majors, my friends, have no more a concept of a personal life than do medical students), but I will do my best to finish this story in a fairly timely fashion. I plan on there being no more than four chapters total, unless I am assaulted by new ideas and decide to extend the conclusion. Thank you all ahead of time for your patience!_

(Boring Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's lovely characters, nor am I receiving monetary profit from their existence in my writing.)


	4. Chapter IV

_**A/N:**__ University has almost eaten me alive, thank you for asking, but yes- I am still here! (Although I would love to know whose bright idea it was to make the due dates our first archi studio project, first archi history exam, and first physics exam of the semester all within five days of one another…) _

_As I reported to you all earlier my laptop died and I could not access my files, including my story. I took the troublesome thing to IT services here at school and they gave it a look-see; sadly, they could not repair it because it is an unusual/old model and they cannot get their hands on the necessary part. For now my plan is to take my laptop home over spring break and try to get it repaired there. However, IT services was able to __**save **_**everything**_ that was on my computer and put it onto an external hard drive… including the chapter I was working on. Thank heavens for that!_

_Once again, a thousand thank-you's to my wonderful reviewers: __**VictoireAgathon, Cockapoo, chestry007, BM originally, Purestrongpoem, kataz, booklover526, imafanoftoomanythings, Neocolai, Kermitty, ForeverInAbyss, Gladoo89, sph9swc, Yippie, Eagle of the South, maplewind, Kim2000,**__**obviously-not, Mia, tmmdeathwishraven, **__a lovely __**guest**__ reader, __**LiLPriNCeSs Me, Horserida, ScarletLeon, maplewind, **__and __**rollwithbutter.**__ Also, I offer my sincerest gratitude to those silent folks out there who have continued to follow along. _

_This is NOT the original Chapter IV. This was a piece completely unplanned. Chapter IV was going to be ENTIRELY different, but while working on it this evening I changed my mind about the transition from the previous chapter. This was going to be a __**small**__ piece added at the beginning of the next part, but it kept growing in size so rapidly that I eventually decided just to make it its own chapter! And, rather than keep you all waiting any longer, I thought I would reward you all for your patience and post this fairly quickly. __ I literally __**just**__ finished writing it (this was one of those "I'm-not-going-to-bed-until-it's-finished" projects), so pardon any mistakes I haven't caught yet! Please enjoy._

* * *

**Chapter IV**

* * *

"_**Yet if hope has flown away**_

_**In a night, or in a day,**_

_**In a vision, or in none,**_

_**Is it therefore the less **_**gone**_**?"**_

_- Edgar Allan Poe, "A Dream Within A Dream"_

* * *

He flashes a sunny smile at me before removing his arm from where it'd been looped through mine; he grasps the handle and turns it, opening the door and pushes his way inside and out of the cold. I follow him with the slightest sense of reluctance, unable to ignore the odd sensation of imprisonment as the door slams behind me with imagined finality.

"Don't you dare take another step!" our mother calls from somewhere nearby. "Wipe your feet, please! All this mud and sand and snow, constantly trailed through the house…"

Her words soon jumble into an unintelligible string of mutterings as she hurries into the tiny back hallway from which we entered. She stands there with her hands on her hips and watches us sternly as we meekly do as she asks.

"Dinner is ready," she tells us, her face gentling as we finish our task and hang up our cloaks. "Fíli, help me set the table, please."

As my brother trots off to the kitchen with our mother I make my own way out to the dining hall. I tarry by the hearth, the gusts of heat radiating from within feeling welcome to my numbed muscles and chilled bones. I breathe in the scents of the burning logs and inch closer, stepping as close to the crackling entity as I possibly can without my garments catching aflame; even so there is a sudden tug at my tunic that causes me to stumble slightly backwards and away.

"Don't walk into the fire, you silly goose," Fíli chides me lightly as he walks on by, bowls and utensils in hand.

"I wasn't going to," I pout slightly, my voice sounding gruff though I feel no true ill will toward my brother. I glance over my shoulder at him, watching him set out the crockery, and with the smallest of grins I surreptitiously take a step closer to the hearth and resume my original proximity.

Soon Mother arrives with a potful of aromatic stew. "Sit down, lads – Kíli? – and come eat. This'll warm you up right and good."

As we delve into our steaming bowls Fíli pauses, a quizzical expression on his face as he looks around. "Where's Uncle?" he asks.

"Oh, somewhere out and about. He said he might be later in returning from the forge today. Things to do, I suppose."

I sigh quietly, sadly relieved that Thorin will not be present. Some of the tension that had built up in my shoulders eases and disappears. Fíli notices this and frowns slightly, but says nothing, choosing instead to take another spoonful of stew. _He does not notice Uncle Thorin's disdain for my very presence as I do._

Our uncle does not return until we have long finished eating. Fíli and I are quietly playing jacks in the great room, warming ourselves by the hearth there while our Mother is busy cleaning in the kitchen. It is then that we hear the main door thrown open and the frigid wind outside rushing in with whistling tones. We both look up at our uncle's familiar voice raised in a call of greeting, Mother answering with genial words, and their voices mingle together in easy tones. We return our attention to our game – I, uneasily so – when we are startled by our mum's sudden cries:

"_**Don't**_ wipe your boots on the _**stool!**_" she shrieks imperiously. "By Mahal, use the mat! _Egad!_ Mud on the floors, mud on the carpets, next thing—mud on the furniture? Oh, no; that's where I draw the line, Brother," she continues grumbling, nigh drowning out Uncle Thorin's incomprehensible murmurs of apology. "It's like having _three _children running around the place instead of two, and sometimes you are the worst of all. Good gracious, some example you are. Oh, just you wait; if my boys start picking up _your_ bad habits I can assure you there shall be some real fire and brimstone, oh yes…"

Fíli looks over at me and covers his mouth to stifle the laughter threatening to bubble up. I offer him a mild smile as I toy with the ball, watching as my grinning brother returns his attention to the scene that is yet out of our line of vision. He listens for a while longer until we hear our uncle's approach, and then he ducks his head down and feigns interest in our game. I, too, assume rapt attention to our idle pastime in an effort to avoid making eye contact with our guardian as he enters the room. Stepping around us as we play, hunched over and seemingly oblivious to our surroundings, he reaches over to the mantelpiece and takes up his pipe and tobacco. He pauses to strike a match and he stares down at us quietly. Of course, I do not see his gaze but I can feel it as acutely as though he had pointedly laid a hand on our shoulders.

"Good evening, boys," he greets us mildly, his voice traced with unguarded amusement at our forced show of concentration. "Enjoying your game?"

Fíli raises his head and smiles with delight as if he had just now noticed Thorin's arrival. "Oh! Hello, Uncle! Yes, we are indeed," he says sweetly before hastily adding, "I'm winning," as though it would give strength to the appearance of our enthusiasm for the game.

I snort at that, almost laughing at Fíli's poor front. "You are not."

He makes a face at me as Thorin chuckles quietly and retreats from the impending battle, sinking into his customary sofa chair before the fire. He is covered in soot and grime from the forge but nonetheless seems content to remain in this state as he settles back and puffs on his pipe slowly. Almost immediately his eyebrows furrow thoughtfully as he stares into the fire, his mind evidently drifting off to serious matters.

Mother blusters into the room and gasps indignantly.

"Aren't you even going to wash up?" she demands of him.

Uncle Thorin continues to stare into the fire, unblinking. At first, we wonder if he had heard his little sister's commanding voice but he eventually replies. "Nope," he mutters out of the side of his mouth, pipe still firmly clenched between his teeth. "Not at the moment."

This surprises all three of us, for Uncle never breaks his evening routine in such a manner. He is not one to go about unbathed after a long day's work.

"Well!" Mother splutters, "So you shall just sit there until it suits you to clean up, then?"

Thorin delays his response long enough to blow a smoke ring. "Aye, more or less," he says absent-mindedly.

Mother turns about with a huff and disappears from whence she came, muttering to herself none-too-quietly about errant brothers and a woman's never-ending work. Fíli and I, in the meantime, do our best to curb our curious glances and instead continue to play. Silence reigns for a long time, Thorin's smoke rings filling the air with their thick, heavy scent.

Though the quiet is customary I grow more and more uncomfortable with it, while Fíli seems to feel at perfect ease. Eventually I tire of my pretended interest in our game and I rise stiffly to my feet, yawning a bit. "I think I'm gonna go read for a while, Fíli," I announce wearily, playfully kicking some of the little jacks into his hand.

He sighs and stretches from his place on the floor, raising his arms high over his head. "Not a bad idea. I think I may just stay here and work on my carving for a while."

I skirt around the large sofa chair where Uncle is seated, successfully avoiding his gaze as he turns his head towards me. I am just breathing a sigh of relief in celebration of the impending success of my swift getaway when I am halted by a single word.

"Kíli."

Something in Thorin's quiet tone makes me very uncomfortable. I cannot detect anything that would suggest that I am in trouble, but Thorin can be very guarded with his intentions and emotional state when he so chooses, and my chest knots up with nervousness. I stand rooted to the spot, realizing that I am holding my breath.

"Come here," he quietly dictates.

Slowly, I turn around towards the fire once more and do his bidding, returning to the side of the armchair; wondering what I will find in his penetrating gaze, I look up at him hesitantly, eventually meeting his grey-blue eyes. Expecting to find an expression of displeasure I am completely nonplussed to find his countenance rather affable, though shadowed with some concern. Thorin seems to contemplate my appearance as he studies my face with soft intensity, pipe forgotten in his hand.

"I want to talk to you," he finally says, "In a little while, after I have cleansed myself and eaten. Will you be in your room?"

My blood just about freezes in my veins, so frightened am I by this unexpected announcement. I'm so flummoxed that I almost forget to answer to the affirmative.

He nods. "Good. Wait for me, then."

I twist my hands behind my back, a little nervous habit that I've had since I was a young child, something I do whenever I am unsure about something. At this moment I am _very_ unsure; in fact, I am downright terrified. 'Talks' with Thorin did not often lead to good things. It usually meant a scathing lecture or discipline, or both. I summon the courage to speak.

"What is it that you wish to speak with me about, Uncle?" I ask in a much smaller voice than I had intended to let slip. I anxiously entwine and twist my fingers round and round.

He offers me a small, rather kind smile, and pats me gently on my arm in a vaguely reassuring manner. "Later, Kíli," is all he will say. He jerks his head slightly in the direction of my and Fíli's room. "Just go and tend to yourself, now."

My heartbeat slows to a more normal rate and my initial terror eases considerably, though my confusion is no less fierce. As I circle the chair once again and patter off into the growing darkness, hundreds of questions arise where others are answered; it seems that he is not angry with me, so I need not fear punishment, but if he is not angry with me, for what purpose does he wish to confront me? What could it mean? I hasten into my and my brother's bedroom, almost running, and shut the door behind me, shutting my eyes and leaning against the door heavily.

I have not the faintest clue to the driving force behind this turn of events… and it worries me.

I stoke the tiny fireplace in our room before climbing into my bed and sitting there with the oil lamp turned up; my legs are pulled up, a book propped up on my knees, and I am trying to focus on the words of a story that normally engrosses me but I cannot concentrate. My mind is consumed with apprehension and my chest slowly tightens more and more with anxiety, so much so that in a while the pain of it makes me groan aloud. The voice inside me continues to whisper all sorts of disquiet thoughts until I finally discard the book and sit despondently, staring into space.

Suddenly, it hits me like a ton of bricks: _Thorin has discovered something._

As my heart begins pounding anew, I am struck with another puzzling thought: I had imagined that Uncle would have been furious if he had discovered what was going on, or even if he had an inkling of it. Though his previous reactions to my actions have been based on a false impression of a carefully disguised problem, it still serves as some indicator of what I had imagined would happen if things became known prematurely.

Another crushing thought hits me: maybe I was wrong about the consequences of my problem. Maybe Thorin wouldn't behave or feel as I thought he would.

I had assumed he would have been wrought with fury, and worse, bitter disappointment. It had never even occurred to me that he could instead be simply. . . ashamed. I reflect back on his gentle expression and actions earlier, his strange behavior upon returning home this night. The puzzle pieces connect and I now know instinctually that there can be no other reason for this little talk: Uncle has found out, or at least found out enough.

_That is it,_ the voice hisses with renewed power. _He has found out and your failure has brought him shame._

My throat constricts with horror. _I haven't just disappointed him._ _I have **hurt** him. I have filled his heart with shame._

_Shame,_ the voice sings gleefully. _Shame. Shame._

Hot tears spring into my eyes so fast that I barely have time to register them. I exhale in a shuddering breath.

_Shame._

One tear drops onto the cream-colored blanket, staining it dark gold. Then two. Then three. The dark stain grows larger as I stare dumbly into nothingness with eyes narrowed in disbelieving grief.

_**Shame.**_

A strangled sob escapes my throat. How can I face my uncle, knowing that he possesses the full knowledge of the disgrace I have brought upon him? How can I look into the face of such a battle-scared, world-weary man of honor and acknowledge the devastating truth that he does, indeed, have such a pathetic weakling for a nephew?— a useless dolt who is not worthy of the royal blood that runs through his veins?

These questions are racing through my mind at break-neck speed when all suddenly shatters into terrible silence: I can hear Thorin's approaching footsteps.

I panic. I cannot face him now, not now; not after all I have done to hide this terrible, embarrassing thing. _Not when I still have nothing to show for it, nothing to redeem myself, nothing to prove my worth._

With a few short, nimble movements, I douse the lamplight low as though it had burned so on its own, and then scramble under the blankets and into my customary sleeping position, curled onto my side. I take several deep breaths to calm my pounding heart and I shut my eyes, mimicking the slow breathing of sleep as carefully as I possibly can. In a final afterthought, I grab the book and hold it as though I had dozed off while reading in bed. I just get it into the correct position when I hear the doorknob turn; fighting away the rush of adrenaline, I shut my eyes and force myself to breath easily and calmly.

The door squeaks open. Silence.

"Kíli?" Uncle finally calls, his voice sounding puzzled.

My heart pounds so fast in my chest that I am half certain it will pop right out through my ribs and clatter onto the floor. I focus on breathing.

There is the sound of a creaking floorboard, then the scuffing of Thorin's soft house shoe against the foot of my bed.

"Kíli?" he says again, more softly this time.

I breathe just a teensy bit louder, feigning a deep, dream-filled sleep.

More silence. Then the book is pulled gently out of my loose grip and I am almost startled into opening my eyes. I hear the leather cover of the book thud softly on the bedside table as my uncle places it there. Presently his large, calloused hands are tugging at the blankets and pulling them more firmly about my shoulders, and I feel his warm breath against my face as he leans forward and smooths my hair behind my ear. This rare sense of gentleness from my guardian almost causes me to forgo my ruse and open my eyes, throw myself into his arms, and let the whole story come tumbling out… but even as I revel in his soothing touch, the little voice whispers in rebuke:

_You have made him ashamed._

For this reason I remain still even as I hear Uncle Thorin sigh rather dispiritedly, his hands returning to his sides as he straightens up, floorboards creaking once more. I listen intently as his heavy footsteps tread away from my bed, past Fíli's, and finally to the doorway. I hear the door squeak open… and at long last, I hear it click shut.

I gasp silently, a shaky, voiceless sob escaping me.

_Shame. Shame. Shame._

* * *

**To be continued. . .**

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Tonight I've come to the conclusion that this story will be somewhat longer than I had previously anticipated. I had expected a maximum of five chapters, but it seems it will take at least six to complete satisfactorily. Yes, you may cheer now. The Blue Canary is singing for frantic joy, himself; the inactivity he has suffered until now has been nearly unbearable! Please reassure him with a review and some snacks, why don't you?_

_Also, I want to note a discovery I made today: when searching 'The Hobbit' genre on this site for Fíli/Kíli stories by order of those with the most reviews AND most followers, "A Private Little War" appears on page #1 in both instances; of stories with the most "favorites" by readers, it's on page #2. Wow! I am so blown away! (At this point, the only thing that could surprise me would be if this was added to a story community. Then I would die.) Once (twice) again, thank you all for continuing to read and review. Words wouldn't do my feelings of gratitude justice. To all of you lovely people out there, please enjoy a nice, warm, freshly-baked, Kíli-themed cupcake. _

_More coming soon!_

(Boring Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's lovely characters, nor am I receiving monetary profit from their existence in my writing.)

**_P. S. I know some of you cannot post a review to this chapter because you already did so on my earlier note (about my computer) I'd uploaded as a "chapter" last week __(and subsequently deleted hours before uploading/posting this chapter, which apparently didn't help. Oh well.)__. Don't worry about it! Instead, just drop me a PM or review as a "guest" and tell me who you are! :-)_**

_(UPDATE_**_ 03/04/2013 -_**_ I've had a couple messages from readers asking when I plan on updating. I promise, no matter how long the update takes in coming, I have absolutely NO intention of abandoning this story. It's just that I am in architecture studio (which entails drawing/modeling/intense projects) more than I am in my own dorm or anywhere else. I get little sleep (think 4 hours), little time to do homework, eat, sleep, even shower. Recently I've been swamped and haven't had time to write... but I PROMISE updates will not cease! Just bear with me!)_


	5. Chapter V

_**A/N: **Can it be true? I finally have had a chance to update! Praise God, eh?_

_Wowza! __A Private Little War__ has been added to TWO communities: __**Kíli, Fíli, and Thorin Family Fics**__, and __**Adventures in Middle Earth**__. I am blown away! Thank you to those who recommended my work!_

_And, of course, ThankYouThankYouThankYou to my reviewers __**ScarletLeon, Isildur's Heiress, iamafanoftoomanythings, Rivan Warrioress, chestry007, VictoireAgathon, Horserida, Ballykissangel, Gladoo89, Vault108, Kermitty, burnbabyburn123, Face15, Italian Hobbit, Rae01, Neocolai, LiLPriNCeSsMe, Pirate-chan, Meeve, Aranna Undomiel, Rowana Renee, People Person I'm not, **__and __**The Musician's Quill.**_

_Well, since time is precious let us not dawdle: The Blue Canary is bursting with song and revving to go, happy that we were finally able to finish writing this chapter… phew. It's been a crazy time. So, without further ado, allow me to present the next installment, the one that most of you have been crying, begging, and screaming for ever since this sad little tale began… *wink* I hope you enjoy it._

* * *

**Chapter V**

* * *

"_**From childhood's hour I have not been**_

_**As others were; I have not seen**_

_**As others saw; I could not bring**_

_**My passions from a common spring."**_

_- Edgar Allen Poe, "Alone"_

* * *

As I approach my destination my footsteps feel ever more sluggish and clumsy, dragging beneath me as though I were pulling along an anchor tied firmly to each ankle. My palm grows sweaty and the sparring rod within my grasp slips now and then, feeling weightier with each step I take. The familiar, suffocating sense of dread creeps upon and grabs at me with soft, smothering hands that reach abruptly for my throat, almost choking me as my destination comes into sight. My breath quickening, I feel the shock of adrenaline as an icy sensation shoots up my spine, temporarily paralyzing me where I stand.

They are all gathered in front of the old mine; everyone is already there, waiting for me. I shudder inadvertently and a slight groan escapes from my lips. I am late. Now I won't even be allowed the grace to mentally prepare myself in solitary for what is to come.

But— hold!— they have not yet seen me standing here among the rocks, it seems. Since I still have this small measure of privacy I remain quietly in place as I inhale measured breaths of air, working to calm my mind and focus as I have always been taught. My eyes rove over the gathering below and take in the barren surroundings; these are the abandoned mines on the north end that were gutted and sealed shut years ago. No one comes by these parts any more – the adults work in mines clear on the other part of this mountainside – and as a result it has become the favored meeting plaza for the local dwarflings when they want to conduct their affairs in private, out of the sight of nosy grown-ups; indeed, such an affair as this one.

Just as I exhale the last of the debilitating dismay, there comes a yell that reverberates on the surrounding rocks.

"Kíli! You're late," the voice remonstrates in a repulsively sweet tone. "Come down from your hiding place. I've got things to do, y'know." The dwarf sounds nonchalant but his words are laced with a disdainful edge that is meant only for my ears, likely missed by all others who can hear.

As some muted laughter filters up to me I experience a refreshing surge of anger that I am sure Dwalin would've told me to harness and use to my full advantage. I do so.

"Have patience, Besor," I answer coolly as I make my way carefully down the crumbling stairs hewn into the rocky path; I guard my own voice with an equally nonchalant tone and tack on an air of innocent humor. "If patience be one of your sparse virtues, that is."

My nemesis throws his head back and laughs with phony merriment, shaking his head as he smiles at me with an equally bogus smile of friendly amusement.

"Ha! Oh, I assure you, it's one of many. It'd have to be, what with me coming here almost every week to meet with you when I can easily call the whole thing off," he says with an almost dismissive wave of his hand.

I feign a cheery smile, welcoming the seething emotions rising within me and carefully bottling them, mentally setting them aside for what is soon to come. The dwarfling who stands before me is a number of years older than I am, roughly the same age as Fíli but further along in physical build; sporting strong shoulders and a broad chest, he is almost a head taller than my brother, with long white-blonde hair and a chin already sporting an infantile beard. His hair is braided in intricate pleats – which he always claims to have done himself, though I refuse to believe it – and his dark eyes are set perfectly aligned on a handsomely rugged face graced by a long nose. I smirk inwardly, a feeling of pride welling up within me; good-looking by our culture's standards he may be, but _my_ elder brother still has the better nose.

"But we are not here to weigh our virtues one against the other," Besor says with a laugh, glancing around at his companions who smile back.

"No indeed," I agree mildly, regarding the others with dim interest. All are friends of Besor, his two closest companions being Hegnar and Ruten – who flank him at close range – though none are enemies of mine if not particularly friends; most are usually not unfriendly. However, all of them are beguiled by his charm, wit, desirable appearances, and physical prowess. Even I had once faintly admired him and might have continued to do so, had it not been for the discreet way that he always manages to jab an insult at me under the very noses of others, dwarflings and grownups alike. I found it to be the strangest phenomenon I had ever encountered: Besor has a way of mocking me in such disguised tones and words that it passes virtually unnoticed by others, coming across as only good-natured teasing or banter. It is a situation I can never call him out on, because I know that if I did, the others would only boo me; how could I say such an awful thing of our beloved Besor? I know that he would only turn around and look at me with those big brown eyes of his, feigning hurt in the face of my accusations, causing the others to turn against me altogether. My victory in archery months ago gave my reputation a soaring boost, but despite my best efforts I still cannot ever truly be part of the group. My social standing among my peers has always been tentative at best, and in the face of all my recent defeats at the hand of Besor I am dangerously close to slipping back into obscurity and worse, permanent public ridicule. I cannot afford to risk falling further down the pack's hierarchy than I have. However, as I stand before the grinning devil I can't help but feel like I have already hit rock-bottom.

"Because, unfortunately," I hear him continue in that sickly honeyed voice, "Virtue is not enough to prove a dwarf's mettle. I mean, all the virtue in the world can't make a weakling strong, nor a coward brave."

"As I'm sure you would know," I finally snap, my patience wearing dangerously thin. "Can we just get on with it?"

"In a hurry yourself, I see?" He clucks his tongue before winking. "Don't worry; I'll make this as short and quick as I can."

I step into the chalk circle that has already been drawn onto the rock ground. "If you can," I mutter.

"Oh, you _know _I can, and I will."

The realist in me does know but the fierce optimist, the descendent of Durin, knows no such thing. "We'll just see about that," I say, rolling the rod in my palm before taking it into both hands and positioning myself; "Won't we?"

A heated expression of antipathy flashes briefly in his eyes before a sneer sweeps across his face. "So we shall, _little imp_."

Seething, I dash into action and attack him without warning, swinging the sparring rod high over my head as I leap into the air. _I hate when he calls me that._

Besor is momentarily caught off guard by my show of strength and he staggers backwards a few steps before he can regain his own. Our spectators, who have now gathered close around the circle, voice an almost unanimous cry of "Oh-h!" as he barely recovers from his stumble. With an amused glint in his eyes Besor returns the blow with greater ferocity that almost pushes me off my feet. I stay firm, however, and the fight goes on.

Time ceases to exist as it disappears in a red-hot flurry of dancing feet, clashing weapons, weary panting and breathless grunts. The occasional roar of cheers or jeers from our audience accents our various attacks and defensive maneuvers, but I am able to drown it out as white noise out of sheer practice.

I do not know how long it is that we fight. Minutes, hours, years — time means nothing. All I know is that if I am to win, I have to strike hard and fast before my strength is sapped beyond recovery; I am outmatched in many ways but most of all by the strength of my opponent. The only way I can counter this disadvantage is to battle when my energy is at its highest; and so I fight hard and savagely, like a wild thing ensnared in a hunter's cruel trap and dragged in from the wilderness beyond, fighting for its freedom all the way.

For that is how I view Besor; a hunter who has no scruples regarding his quarry, no compunction regarding his manner of victory. His vision of honor is skewed. The final deed is all that matters to him; the means are of no consequence.

He boosts his own ego by dragging mine through the mud and muck of his own failings.

If he had any real honor to begin with, he would not fight me under such circumstances any longer. He would have called this whole thing off long ago in a gracious manner that would have left both of us with honor intact. Had our places been reversed and it was I who was continually the solid victor, I would refuse to fight him any further, for doing otherwise would only bring him unnecessary humiliation. There is no shame in one lost battle, or even two, if the foe is one so strong and one fights with as much wit and integrity as he could muster; better to count one's losses, as they say, and move on. To continually, repeatedly lose, however— that is a thing of infamy…

… And _that_ is an infamy which I now suffer.

Besor was the one who issued the challenge, aye, out of anger and likely jealousy that my skill had become the positive talk of the adult population; jealousy that I no longer walked with shy steps around the dwarves when I carried my bow with me; jealousy that now I could walk with surety and meet the eyes of all who looked towards me; jealousy that I could bear the name of Durin with a confidence I had once lacked.

He issued the challenge, and I stupidly accepted. As a result, I can only believe that this situation is my own fault.

I should have walked away.

I should have turned up my nose with the cocky poise that Fíli always manages to exude in these situations and walked on by.

But I am not my brother. I am Kíli. I do not possess the undying patience that he inherited from our mother. I do not wait for opportunity. I do not rationalize everything to the last detail before I even so much as take a breath. I am hot-blooded, impetuous, and passionate. I chase down opportunity before it has even hatched and I drag it in by its coattails. I act on first instinct and either win high or fall hard.

I grew tired of ignoring the insults, the names, the ceaseless teasing. The fuse of my temper is a short one and I already had forced myself to bear more than seemed necessary for the sake of keeping my newfound status untarnished and making my family proud.

I am not Fíli. It is beyond my ability to forever react to things with the saintly calm that he can and I cannot continually turn the other cheek when I am insulted. I punch the offender in the nose…

… and I did. That was my first mistake.

Besor was laden with righteous fury as he tried to staunch the blood that ran down his face and he had issued me the challenge then and there: a duel, best two out of three.

I heatedly accepted. That was my second mistake.

The rules were simple: each match was to be fought with the sparring rod until one or the other yielded. I was beaten spectacularly both times, much to the delight of our bloodthirsty audience, but in an apparent act of graciousness Besor offered me a chance to regain my 'honor' and meet him for a third match. Believing that refusing would have marked me an honorless coward, I agreed.

That was my third mistake and the final, proverbial nail in the coffin.

Despite my brave efforts I met with another embarrassing defeat in our third match. Besor—like a sadistic hunter who, rather than free his quarry from the bear trap and mercifully put it out of its misery, attains pleasure from watching it flail around in the evil, iron jaws and bleed its life out on the ground—saw an opportunity to have further fun at my expense. He off-handedly agreed to meet me for as many matches as it took me to either beat him or permanently yield and walk away.

There was no way out. There was no way I could honorably yield after such a disgraceful series of matches. Doing so would leave my reputation in unrepairable tatters and I would be unable to hold my head up among my peers, forever marked as a weakling and a coward. My golden brother would forever find his own reputation hampered by his relation to me. Thorin would forever bear the shame of having one of two heirs branded with such ill repute.

I could not allow these things to happen. As a result there was only one course I could take, and that was to accept Besor's offer despite my better judgment.

Willingly have I borne the remonstrations and condescension of my uncle, the fury of my mother, the nights without supper, the restrictions, the sting of the willow switch, if only that it means them believing nothing more than I have fallen to hot-headedly brawling with my peers. If it means that they will not have to know of my grievous situation, then so be it. I regret none of it.

Besor's offer is a trap of which I have yet to free myself, and with every match I have lost—this is now the eleventh one I am engaged in—the trap has enclosed around me more solidly and murderously.

Every match I lose causes me to lose face more and more. Every match I lose would make yielding even more disastrous. I am caught in a vicious, downward spiral and the only way up and out is through defeating the hunter.

He grins as I step backwards wearily to dodge his blow and my foot slips right out from under me; I have to stop my downward descent with a quick push to the ground with my hand. I feel the rock below is wet and slippery, and is with vague bewilderment that I allow my eyes to stray momentarily in search of the cause; it has begun to snow again. Large, white flakes have begun to fall and they float down with a quiet elegance that belies the miserable violence of my situation.

I snap back to attention just in time to block a heavy blow. I strike, he parries. I strike again. Back and forth we go, on and on, our breath freezing in the icy air. I throw everything I've got; every move I can think of, every last trick, every show of strength that is possible has been dealt… and then it happens: I tire.

It happens suddenly, and as soon as the familiar feeling of devastating fatigue hits me, I know it can only go downhill from now on… for Besor will never give me the chance to recover.

With a triumphant leer he hacks away at me with unrelenting fervor, the blows of his rod coming hard, fast, and painful; he literally beats me to my knees as I struggle to maintain my grip on my weapon. As I attempt look up at him from behind my defensive arm and through my damp, tousled hair, the snow picks up speed and some freezing flakes fly into my unguarded eyes. I hiss with pain and in that moment, Besor kicks me onto my back. Down and blinded I am powerless to ward off his blows and he strikes merrily away.

"Yield!" he cries gaily.

I gasp for breath and I struggle in vain to raise my arm and strike back. I can barely grip my rod but shout back stubbornly, "No!"

With a grim expression Besor aims a blow directly on my wrist, trying to get me to drop my weapon completely. Though I yelp at the underhanded maneuver I do not relinquish my hold.

"Yield, Kíli!" he insists, louder.

Mentally cursing him, I manage to roll and spin around out of his way and I stagger to my feet in a last stand of defiance. I take a deep breath and, with an impressive roar, I gather the last remnants of my strength and hurl it all into one, massive, frontal attack. With a mildly irritated expression Besor ferociously parries my attack with one that hurls me off my feet and sends me sprawling and my rod flying far out of reach. I land on my face, completely winded, and before I can even comprehend what has happened Besor places his booted foot firmly on my back.

"Give it up, already, you little fool. It's over."

The solemn maliciousness with which he says those words cuts me to the quick, even more so because I know he is right. I had trained harder than I ever had in my life, and had faith that this time I would win for sure. Yet, once again, I have been thoroughly, painfully, humiliatingly defeated. My energy is spent, my is weapon gone, and I am wholly immobile. The other dwarflings jeer and laugh, egging on Besor, baying for me to yield.

"I… I yield," I finally manage to wheeze. "This time."

He snorts, removing his foot and walking away. He pauses at some distance and at an angle beyond my vision.

"You still will not yield for good?" he asks in amusement, the taunting tone so plainly audible to my ears. When I answer to the affirmative by my silence, he simply laughs.

"Oh, little fool," he says, returning to my side. "He wants another fight yet he cannot stand up from the previous one without asking for assistance."

Even now I remain silent, for I have no intention of asking Besor to lend me a hand and help me to my feet. Instead, I slowly begin to rise on my own, painstakingly pushing myself up on my hands and knees as he walks away, clucking his tongue disapprovingly while his friends come to his side. Some of the others pause, as though considering coming to my aide, but within moments they make their decision and all leave in Besor's wake. When I finally raise my head, I see that I am alone.

I push myself onto my knees and I sit there, aching, hurting, aware of the new bruises adorning my skin as I wait for the breath to return to my lungs. While I wearily watch the other dwarflings disappear over the rocks and into the grey sky, my eyes mist over on their own accord and my exhausted brain is assaulted by a single thought.

_I have lost—again._

I swallow hard as I begin to shiver.

_That means it's still not over._

The grief brought by that realization is almost too powerful to bear. My whole body shudders.

"Mahal," I whisper in soul-deep despair, "When will this nightmare finally end?" I gasp for breathe, and a dry sob nigh strangles me. "When can I _rest_?"

The snow falls in more rapid gusts and the wind whistles around the rocks, but there is no answer to my heartbroken query.

Something fluttering up in the wind catches the corner of my eye and I turn my head to look. I squint into the swirling snow and see that it is a cloak, that someone is standing at the top of the high slope amongst the rocks. . . and I almost choke.

Standing there, leaning against the wind and looking down at me quietly, is my own Uncle Thorin.

Heedless of the stinging flakes that fly into my shocked eyes I stare, aghast. The absolute worst conceivable nightmare has happened. I had thought the worst possible outcome would be Thorin's discovery of my disgrace, whether by my word or someone else's; I had not, even in my wildest imagination, considered the ridiculous possibility of him being present to witness the actual event as it took place. I never thought he would be privileged to my public humiliation at the hands of my peers.

While we do not make eye contact, he knows that I have seen him, and he slowly begins to make his careful descent down the now slippery path.

Horrified, I scramble onto my feet and step backwards hastily, almost slipping and falling right back down again.

"Kíli!" His voice rises above the wind.

Utterly consumed by shame, I gasp in panic at his approach and stagger in the opposite direction. Tears of abject misery slip from my eyes with terrifying ease and speed, impairing my vision to near blindness.

"Wait, Kíli!" Thorin calls to me a second time, more earnest.

"NO!" I cry out frantically, brokenly, my voice hoarse from exhaustion. "Go away! _**Please**_ go away!"

In a mad dash to escape I flounder up the opposite set of rock-hewn stairs, the wind blowing at my back and helping me in my ascent. I know that he bellows after me, orders— entreats, even— for me stop, to wait, to return. . . but I am deaf to his calls. Mortification complete, assaulted by throbbing pains of several natures, I blunder away as fast and far as my bruised legs can carry me.

* * *

_**To be continued. . .**_

* * *

_**A/N:**__ This was a very difficult chapter to write. Reason one, in revealing Kíli's problem I struggled to maintain the quality of writing I have had up until now. Reason two, the essence of his trauma hits me on a somewhat personal level and it was frustrating trying to get Kíli to "vocalize" some of the things. I have rewritten this chapter almost totally from scratch several times..._

_The weather in the chapter may or may not have been inspired by a recent blizzard that shut down my university for a day. *nonchalant whistle*_

_Ah well. The Blue Canary flutters back to his cage in my soul, his wings moving irregularly, as the work he put into this chapter really wore him out. Too much angst for the little guy to deal with, it seems. (He also had to scare me into finishing this chapter last night by morphing into his rare form, The Blue Phoenix. Yikes! Lesson learned: do NOT underestimate the muse!) _

_Please provide the cute little bird and the not-so-cute-but-terribly-sleep-deprived and extremely-ready-for-spring-break author with nourishing reviews. Feed uuusssssss. *GLOMP*_

(Boring Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's lovely characters, nor am I receiving monetary profit from their existence in my writing.)


	6. Chapter VI

_**A/N**__: As usual, I am blown away by the responses of my reviewers. The effects that my writing has had on many of you has left me both humbled and honored; your thoughts and views, fascinating and touching. I wish so much that I could see my own writing with a stranger's eyes so I could see what it is that you all see. THANK YOU, EVERYONE. I cannot even begin to tell you how excited I get when I am email-notified "New Review posted...!". I get a rush of adrenaline and I can hardly wait to read whatever it is that you lovelies have to say. It's thrilling!_

_Much love goes to my reviewers __**Cockapoo, Horserida, Ballykissangel, BM originally, chestry007, tweetzone86, Purestrongpoem, Gladoo89, sph9swc, Kermitty, Fey Nim, SkittleMachine, Meeve, wardog85, Neqyro, Pirate-chan, LiL PriNCeSs Me, bean15, Ggina8, Mia, Blueberre, Macy12, Craic agus Ceol, **__and __**WindStar. **__Hugs and _Fíli_-themed muffins for you all._

_Plus a very special thank you to my regular reviewer, __**Italian Hobbit,**__ who was an incredible help to me in this chapter. Together in Skype chat we harassed and encouraged one another to work on our own stories (please, do yourself a favor and read her work. It's amazing.), and in the process we have discovered that we make a dangerous Dynamic Duo. Seriously, girl, why do we think so alike?! The world shall never be the same. ;-)_

_This chapter is enormous: it is the longest one I have written to date and will likely remain the largest chapter of this story. Please enjoy this special treat!_

* * *

**Chapter VI**

* * *

_"**The happiest day- the happiest hour**_

_**My sear'd and blighted heart hath known,**_

_**The highest hope of pride and power,**_

_**I feel hath flown...**"_

- _Edgar Allan Poe, "The Happiest Day, the Happiest Hour"_

* * *

I run on and on.

_He was there. He saw you._

The throbbing in my head beats steadily louder and harder, like a wild mountain pony is running frantically around my brain and his hoof beats are echoing inside my skull. Through the loud din in my mind that sinister little voice hisses gleefully in my ear.

_He saw you __**fail.**_

The imagined pony screams in misery, increasing the pounding in my head tenfold; my footsteps falter as I stumble from the pain. I regain my balance after a few moments, however, and continue my blind flight. My legs are numb from cold, exhaustion making my muscles immune to the fresh strain of the pace I am keeping.

_You are an embarrassment. _

Up until now the wind has been bodily urging me forward along this abandoned path, its cold and airy hands firmly batting and slapping at my back, pushing, shoving; it has since changed its course and is rushing wildly in all directions, buffeting my weary body about until I trip and fall against a large boulder. Completely spent, I sink down heavily onto the ground, leaning against the boulder and taking it as meager shelter from the increasingly hostile weather.

_You are an embarrassment to your line. You have failed everyone: your brother, mother, uncle..._

I hug myself against the biting cold and draw my legs up to me chest, burrowing my head between my knees as I pant for breath.

_... And you have failed __**yourself.**_

A strangled cry– more of a tired whimper, really– escapes my throat as the devastating thoughts overwhelm me.

_You couldn't prove your self-worth to anyone, even to yourself._

_Looks like you're not worth much, after all._

My eyes are squeezed tightly shut but they burn all the same.

_Little fool. You aren't worth anything. You're nothing._

"Stop it!" a ragged voice cries out. It takes me a moment to realize it is my own. "Lies! Lies... it's not over." My voice is cracked, broken. "I still have a chance. I still can make amends. I can still _fix_ it! It's not over!"

_But it __**is**__ over,_ the voice remonstrates solemnly. _It's too late. He found out, and now he has seen all. You are thoroughly disgraced._

Utterly overcome by exhaustion, my body succumbed to weariness, I am wracked by dry sobs that are more akin to panicked gasps for air than true crying.

"No, no, no..." I whisper to myself miserably, unable to accept what has happened. "Stop it, stop; please." I shake my head violently, trying so very hard to block out the thoughts that are rushing at such deafening speeds, the voice that is hissing so condemningly.

_Coward. Weakling. _

_Little imp. Stupid, stupid imp. Little fool. Stuck-up, spoilt Durin brat._

_Who do you think you are?_

I take short, shallow breaths in the throes of my anxiety attack and rock myself back and forth, my chest still wracked by my silent, heaving sobs.

_You are not worthy of the blood that runs through your veins._

_You're no good..._

I raise my head and utter a single, agonized wail that is quickly swept away by the tumultuous winds.

_... And you never shall be._

* * *

When I next raise my head the sun has long since abandoned the winter skies; not even a bleeding trace of color remains. It is quite dark, with the stars already revealing themselves in all their coldness. The wind has died down to more peaceable breezes and there is a thin layer of freshly-fallen snow on all of my surroundings. Even I am dusted with the white stuff. I stare dumbly at the fluffy crystals on my arms and boots, my mind blank, while I sit frozen in the quiet of the lonely mines. All is silent save for the sound of my pulse beating gently in my ear, accompanying my heart thudding softly in my chest. After a time it occurs to me that it is the darkest hour of the evening and yet I am seated here in the middle of nowhere in the center of a snowdrift; I should have been home long ago. I have missed my curfew and likely my dinner... again.

I reach up and brush idly at my head with fingers so numb I can scarcely feel the snow in my hair. Watching the sparkling ice sprinkle to the ground I vaguely recall my mother's orders concerning curfew– and Uncle Thorin's threats, concerning my minding said orders– and I come to another realization: I have inadvertently disobeyed her and have likely landed myself into more trouble, if such a thing is possible. I wonder distantly if Uncle Thorin will make good on his ominous promise of discipline.

I should be upset by these recollections, even panicking... but all I feel is tired. Strangely, I don't really care much about anything right now, as though part of my brain has frozen over in the cold. Mentally and emotionally, I'm drained. So I've committed another infraction: what difference does it make?I've already hit rock-bottom. With my failure has come a sense of dumb acceptance– nothing I can do can fix anything, anymore. I gave it my all, but it still wasn't good enough. _It's no use._

Dazed, I slowly untangle my limbs from where I've sat hugging myself all this time. Joints crack, muscles pull, and by sheer luck I manage to right myself and stand on my own two feet once more. A teasing breeze blows against my unguarded face and I shiver violently, drawing my cloak more closely about me, and shuffle slowly homeward.

* * *

_Bom. Bom. Bom._

I withdraw my fingers from the metal knocker and wince, for the icy metal had burned my skin. Shivering within my cloak I standing before the front door, waiting apprehensively. I could not enter my normal way, for the private side door that leads to the kitchen was fastened shut, likely in anticipation of the high winds. Consequently I have been locked out and there is no hope of gaining admittance in secret, no chance of me somehow sneaking to bed without bumping into my mother or Thorin, feigning illness, or pretending that–

– There is a sudden creaking and scraping on the other side of the door; I jump. As I listen to the bolt being pulled back, the latch undone, I can't help but wonder if the side door was locked in order to ensure my making a public entrance... to make sure that I will be caught.

_Not that it matters,_ I silently sigh to myself as the heavy door swings open. Golden lamplight floods out from within the house and I raise my hand to my eyes; squinting, I can just discern a familiar, imposing figure standing in the doorway, and I gasp silently.

"Kíli!" My mother sounds both relieved and flustered as she exclaims my name. "Come inside this instant, young man." She grasps my free wrist firmly, pulling me inside before releasing me.

I stagger over the threshold and almost trip over the shoe-rug on the floor, struggling as I am to regain proper vision and adjust to the warm light of my surroundings. My senses are assaulted by the light and heat of home, the familiar aromas of nutmeg, hazelnut, and... pumpkin pie? My mouth waters slightly, and a forgotten hunger makes its announcement by rumbling quietly in my empty stomach.

"Well." My mother folds her arms across her chest and glowers at me impressively; I gaze back at her with a dismal expression, my face half-hidden by my hood and damp hair. She allows her obvious displeasure to sink in before speaking again. "It has been dark for several hours, and you have only just returned."

A statement rather than a question. I inadvertently shiver, knowing from experience that this is but the calm before the storm. I stand stock-still where I entered, shivering only when the pain of my thawing toes and fingers sinks in. I wait, eyeing the manner in which my mother drums her impatient fingers on her elbows. She takes a deep breath– and I expect The Question.

"Where have you been? Why are you late?"

Two questions. That's breaking routine. I venture a tentative glance up into her clouded face; I see anger, yes, but it is almost completely overwhelmed by worry. The tone of her voice also gave that away. And her eyes... oh, she looks so weary. I gulp, fresh guilt washing over me.

"I was high up in the hills," I reply in a hoarse voice. "The wind grew wild, and I waited it out before venturing to make my way down the rocky paths. I know it's not an excuse but I did not mean to break my curfew. I am sorry, Mum, truly."

My explanation rings true; my apology, sincere; my mother stares me down for a few moments before the tension in her shoulders visibly lessens. "Well. You're right. It's no excuse," she says with severity. "You should have accounted for the weather and left early enough to be home on time. That's your own responsibility."

I sigh, shoulders slumping, but look up in surprise when my mother approaches, her eyes crinkling as a gentle smile spreads over her face. "But things happen. You were wise to take cover until it was safe to return." She brushes her hand softly across my cheek before leaving it to rest on my shoulder, squeezing slightly. "Let's take these muddied boots off, and your cloak; it's soaked," she announces with loving imperiousness, pushing me onto the bench by the front door. She begins unfastening the endless ties on my boots while shooing away my small, stiff fingers. "Let me," she insists.

As though in a haze I watch her, fascinated, as she pulls my boots off and disappears, leaving me alone in the little foyer to remove my now-dripping cloak. I tarry on the bench, however, leaning back against the wall behind me and staring straight ahead. My mother's quick and easy forgiveness of my little transgression was not something I had expected at al.

"You must be hungry, lad," I can hear her say, her voice drifting through the quiet house. I wonder where Fíli is, and if my uncle has returned home yet. Has he gone out? He saw what happened to me; why is he not here? And he clearly has not spoken to my mother...

"A bit, Mum," I eventually admit, almost too quietly for her to hear.

"Ha! 'A bit', he says. More likely he's ready to eat the wood work, my poor boy," she clucks from beyond. I can't help but smile a little at the sound of her bustling about, stoking the stove and cleaning my boots. After a while I finally find it within myself to rise to my feet and extract myself from the confines of my cloak; my mother returns just then with my house shoes– soft, cloth boots– for me to put on and protect my feet from the cold floors. I accept them eagerly and bury my almost-frozen feet in their fleecy warmth.

"There we are," she murmurs, taking my cloak and shaking it lightly. "I'll hang this by the fire. Poor thing," she says, dark eyes troubled. "Caught in that dreadful weather."

"T'wasn't that bad," I counter softly.

My mother 'tut-tut's as she whisks my garment away to the hearth, me following close on her heels. I stand before the flames rubbing life back into my arms and hands, my whole body tingling from the welcome heat. She throws on another log before turning to me once more, a shadow of a frown flickering across her face.

"Oh, Kíli," she hums with concern. "Even your clothes are damp. You had better change before you catch your death of cold." Her hands run over my shirt, pinching the fabric gently and she shakes her head before redirecting her attention upwards. "And your hair. Is your head wet, Kíli?" Before I can protest she is busily running her fingers through my hair and pushing it away from my face, smoothing it back and– she suddenly stops.

"Kíli."

The way she breaths my name causes my heart to skip a beat and then drop to my stomach with shame. _How could I have forgotten the..._

"Bruises." Her voice is deadpan, now. "What are these bruises, Kíli?"

From when I fell on my face– surely there is a bruise on my cheek, on my forehead... perhaps some marks from where Besor's wayward rod-strokes had nicked me, too. I close my eyes, shame filling my heart all over again, rushing in like water through a cracked dam.

When I don't answer her my mother grabs me by both shoulders and sharply forces me to turn around and face her. "Answer me," she demands, a distinctly sharp edge to her voice. "Where did these bruises come from?"

I nervously raise my eyes to meets hers, which are darkened with rising fury, with upset and distinct disappointment written all over her features. Her brows are furrowed, and her gaze is hard and searching. My plans have all failed, my efforts have been for naught– and now I so _want_ to tell her what happened, as I can feel the crushing force of my grief and trauma threatening to consume me. I feel any resolve that I may have had shattering into a thousand shards of misery as I feel her fingers digging into my shoulders; I would give anything for some sort of comfort or reassurance that all hope's not lost, even if I know it is. I don't have the words to tell her, however. How does a boy tell his mother that he is a wimp and a coward who is an utter embarrassment to his line? I must be a coward for sure, because I do not even have the courage to admit my failure to my own mother. My tongue feels dried and dead in my mouth, incapable of speech; I can only stare back at her, wide-eyed and numb.

Her jaw trembles slightly and she abruptly gives me a firm shake. "You _promised!_" she cries, sounding more hurt than anything else. "You promised me, Kíli. You gave me your word that you were going to stay out of trouble, that this kind of thing would stop! Why, Kíli?" With every word her voice rises further and further, so that by her last sentence she is yelling. "Why do you continue to _do_ this? I don't understand!"

Oh, how I_ want _to tell her... but I can't. It is no longer that I am trying to hide the truth. It is that the truth is so humiliating and horrid that I don't know how to speak of it. _It is not by choice that I have continued,_ I want to say. _I had to. I tried to stop it. It didn't work. I __**failed.**_

By now my mother's anger is palpable; the look on her face unnerves me and I inadvertently turn my head away; even then I can still feel the power of her temper radiating over me. My continued silence acts as a fuse, it seems, for when I still cannot answer her she suddenly releases her grip and instead begins firing off a furious tirade.

"Shame on you!" she yells angrily. "_Shame on you!_ Do you think your actions are of no consequence to anyone but yourself? Do you think that you are somehow exempt of the codes and traditions that bind us all? Selfish, that's what you are. Fighting," here she gestures irately, "_Brawling_ like a common criminal with a chip on his shoulder!"

Her words fly so fast that I can scarcely make sense of it all, but as she rages on her pent-up worry, anger, and total frustration with my actions is revealed. How much grief, caused by a child, does a mother keep pent-up to her bosom? I cannot remember ever seeing my mother this upset– at least, this upset and her ire being directed at _me_. I have pushed her to many a boiling point in my lifetime but never this far... and this time, it's not even my fault.

_But it __**is**__ your fault,_ that despicable little voice reminds me sharply, remonstrating in its acidic tones. _None of this would have happened if you were man enough. You brought this on yourself._

My mother's concluding words are what cut me the deepest. "Do you realize–" she says, her words short, clipped with a colder edge of anger, "– how much your actions hurt your family?"

I wince hard at that question, flinching as though I had been physically struck. _I am aware of it more than anything else in the world, Mum._

"Your brother– I have never seen him suffer so, suffer in silence under some burden that he clearly carries because of you. Your uncle– I doubt you can fathom how you've hurt him," she cries. "You think of him as cold and unfeeling, undisturbed by whatever crazy antics you can concoct– but he's not. Oh, he may not openly show it, but he values you and Fíli more than anything in this world. He has done so much for you, all that is within his power in this god-forsaken place."

My mother pauses to take a tremulous breath and makes as though to continue, but then suddenly all her fire seems to die; seemingly succumbing to her own greater feelings she bows her head, shielding her eyes with one hand and propping her elbow on her other arm, which is crossed over her chest. I watch her, grief stricken, as she stands there for a long moment looking for all the world much smaller and frailer. It is almost as frightening as seeing her infuriated. I swallow hard, feeling responsible for the stress that is overwhelming her.

Finally, she swipes at her eyes quickly– for she is proud, and it would not do for her son to see her cry– and she begins scolding me anew, but in quieter, more somber volumes.

"He labors long and hard in the city of Men to support you, provide you with all the comforts and opportunities that he possibly can, all to make your life as pleasant as possible. He has an entire exiled nation of dwarves to consider but you are never far from his mind. He never asks for thanks, he never complains... he simply does what he believes he must."

My mother is oblivious to the water welling in my eyes as she goes on.

"When you do these things, thoughtlessly and without a care, it wounds him deeply. Thorin has so much hope and aspirations riding on you two boys. You are his _sister sons._ You are more special to him than anyone else on the face of this earth, other than myself." As she pauses her fire seems to reignite and her eyes, bright with tears, glow with fury once more. "It wouldn't hurt you," she snarls, "To show a little consideration for what he's done, and at least _try_ to do the right thing, to act honorably for _his_ sake if for no other reason."

My throat tightens so much that I am almost choking. I feel as though I am literally drowning in the pain of my own hurt and misery. For that reason I am still struck dumb, only able to slowly shake my head in denial and stare at my mother in despair.

For a long moment she stares right back at me, silent, before she eventually explodes: "Even now you say _**nothing?**_" she cries, her disbelief plainly evident on her face.

Desperate to answer her, I scrabble mentally for words. "Mum, I-I..." When I finally do speak, my voice is gravelly and foreign to my own ears. "I _have_ t-tried, b-been trying. Never stopped; _please_–" My hands are forward and open, palms facing up in an act of supplication. "– I would that I-I could make you understand... that I c-could find the wo–"

"Oh, I understand," she interrupts, eyes flashing. "You can't stay out of trouble, that's what. You have no self-restraint. If you demonstrated some self-control you wouldn't be in this mess; am I right?"

Stunned into silence once more, I feel my heart skip a beat as I see the truthfulness in her accusation. For, if I hadn't lost my cool and thrown that punch at Besor all those weeks ago, if I hadn't agreed to the first match, or if I had at least walked away after my first lost battle, I wouldn't be in this dreadful situation. _She's right. You've dug your own grave._

Taking my silence as affirmation to her statement, my mother nods curtly. "Right, then," she bites out, briskly stepping towards me and grabbing my ear. I yelp as she leads me in this manner to my own chambers, and I can't help but whimper slightly under the force of her fearsome anger.

"Please, Mum," I rasp, "Give me a chance, t-time to explain– "

"I've given you all the chances in the world, Kíli," she cuts in, "And I've heard all the flimsy explanations that I care to hear. I've been fair, and I've been patient. You took advantage of my good grace and now I've had enough." She pushes open my bedroom door and pulls me inside.

"I'm sorry!" I cry pleadingly as she releases her death-grip on my throbbing ear; I grasp and rub it woefully. "Please believe, Mum, I am _so_ sorry–"

"No, you're not," my mother replies sternly, quietly. "But you shall be. I _am _sorry, for it seems that you only learn things the hard way, Kíli, and you can be sure that this will be a lesson that you will not soon forget."

I can't help but moan quietly in anguish as she pulls that horrid willow switch from out of nowhere. I shake my head furiously and back away, abandoning any thoughts of stoicism. It has been a terrible day– my body already aches and hurts; my heart feels as though it is going to burst from the pain of my sorrows– and I feel like I have already endured more than I ever thought possible. All I want to do is curl up in my bed under the blankets and quietly die.

Without warning, something snaps inside of me like a broken bow string.

"No, Mother!" I cry, hoarsely at first, then in a clearer voice I cry again, "No!" She, of course, ignores my protests and takes hold of my wrist but I slap her hand away, staggering backwards against the footboard of Fíli's bed.

More than a little shocked at the lack of my normal, obedient acceptance of discipline, my mother frowns at me darkly before moving to take hold of me again. "You are only making things worse for yourself, young man." Her warning tone is unmistakable.

"No!" My voice hits a shriek while I dodge her grabbing hand and press myself against the footboard, suddenly and inexplicably beginning to shiver violently. Barely aware of my own actions I cover my ears, howling in bitter frustration and inner torment as I slip slowly to the floor, back against the bed. I yell the word _"No" _over and over again as I curl into myself, gradually drawing my knees up and bending my head downward, much like I had up in the mountain. I begin to hyperventilate.

"Kíli!" is the authoritative cry.

"_**STOP! **_Please! I can't take it anymore," I scream raggedly. "_**I can't take it anymore!**_"

My mother, thoroughly flabbergasted and disturbed by the unexpected turn of events, is just about to say something when the bedroom door suddenly flies open with a resounding _BANG_.

"Dís!" bellows my uncle, both alarm and ire ringing in his deep voice. "Enough!"

My startled mother stares at him in shock, looking from him to me and back again. "I haven't even touched him, Thorin!" she protests, flustered and still angry. She gestures in an agitated manner. "The boy's gone out of his senses!"

Uncle stares back at her for a moment with an expression of disbelief– as though he is trying to decide whether she is telling the truth or not– but the look passes in a heartbeat as he turns his gaze towards me. I quickly look down, away, anywhere but his face. I hear him cross the threshold.

"Leave us, Dís," he orders my mother quietly, respectfully.

"I'm not finished with him, yet, Brother," is her firm reply. "I don't know what's gotten into him but I have to address the behavior he–"

"Dís, please."

"Thorin! You are interfering with my parental duties!"

"_D__í__s._" My uncle's tone takes a hard, unyielding edge. "I wish to speak with the boy now."

"Oh, so are _you_ finally going to deal with him?" she snaps. "I'm mildly surprised you haven't already. You seemed to think he was riding a fine line before, or have you changed your mind?"

There is a short pause before my uncle answers her.

"Let me take care of this," is all he says; in lower tones he continues, "I'll explain later."

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. _Uncle is angry,_ my feverish mind hums wildly._ He is going to confront me about my failures. He's going to tell me how much I've let him down and he's going to discipline me._ I suddenly feel cold all over, whether because of fear or nerves or my increasingly uncomfortable wet clothing, I don't know. It is also with great difficulty that I cease the hyperventilation and calm myself to a more acceptable state of panicked wheezing. I dare not raise my head, so I can only imagine the exchanged glares between the stubborn siblings; the elder evidently wins because I hear my mother sigh in exasperated defeat as she walks out of the bedroom, muttering something incoherent as the door is shut behind her.

Aside from my unnatural breathing there is quiet; for a few seconds I think I am alone in my broken state but my uncle's approaching footsteps quickly dispel such thoughts. As he stands before me I flatten myself against the footboard of Fíli's bed, the wide, wooden board acting as a barrier between me and freedom. I wish with all my might that I could melt into it, disappear like a tree nymph and separate myself from this terrible world and all this turmoil, but all I can do is sit here and shiver. Then the floorboards creak loudly and my guardian is suddenly crouching down in front of me, then kneeling, and all I can do is clutch my legs close and turn my head away. I am desperate not to see the shame in his eyes, the hurt, the disappointment, and the righteous anger that has surely followed. This is the final blow, and I don't feel strong enough to withstand it.

"Kíli," he says, voice unexpectedly gentle. "Look at me."

His tone of voice confuses me but I know, I _know_ how he _really_ feels. He has every right. Oh, what a useless mess I am...

"N-No," I gasp tremulously, my voice impossibly quiet. I shut my eyes tight as my breath hitches, willing myself to be anywhere but here and now. "I can't. L-Leave me alone. I can't, I c-can't. . . G-go away, please, just–"

"Kíli." He breaths my name more slowly, tone mild and soothing.

"P-Please, don't," I choke out, shivering with fear at my own defiance right in my uncle's very face. "I just can't..." _I can't face you right now. _"I want t-to be _alone_. I want to be left alone in the dark. Th-That's a-all I want."

"You don't want that, lad," Uncle replies, voice growing even softer.

"Y-Yes I do! I want to be alone. I want... I-I w-want. . ." I try to catch my breath as my rapid breathing further increases. "_**I just want it to stop.**_ I w-want it all t-to stop." Clutching my legs, my eyes squeezed shut, I cling to the inviting darkness and continue to murmur half under my breath, babbling in my state of wretchedness. "I c-can't... h-handle... I can't d-deal w-with... this. I just– I j-just– I want to put it to an end, I want an _**end**_. . ."

As I feel all semblance of reality crashing around my ears and I hear the wicked, wicked little voice laughing maniacally, the sound ringing in my eardrums cruelly, I don't even care when I feel Uncle Thorin untwisting my legs, uncurling my fingers from my trouser fabric, moving my arms and pulling me forward into space; I know he intends to punish me, but I feel that nothing can possibly hurt me more than I already am...

... Then my nostrils are filled with the sweet scents of oak and pine, musty coal and metallic ashes. The cold is drawn from out of my stiff muscles by some greater force, warmth flooding through instead, and it takes me a few long moments to realize that my uncle has pressed me to his chest, his strong arms holding me close to his heart. He is hugging me.

_Even after all this, he still loves me._

The power of his rare, affectionate embrace hits a chord so deep and private that I am left helpless in its wake. I am unable to disguise the depth of my pain any longer; as my face is buried in his rugged tunic, broken sobs come tumbling out of their own free will, and tears I'd held back for two terrible months flow liberally down my cheeks. I fall completely limp in his strong arms and I cry with broken-hearted forcefulness for what feels like a long time, but my uncle doesn't say a word; he simply holds me in that protective manner, only moving to place his hand on my head and finger my damp hair soothingly. His touch brings a sense of security that I had all but forgotten, and I as further melt into his embrace everything else seems to fade to grey insignificance: for my uncle is here, and he is holding me, and nothing in all of Middle Earth can harm me when he is close to me.

After a while I am aware of him shifting, his right arm slipping under my knees and gathering my legs beneath me. With the surety of years of practice Uncle Thorin adjusts his grip and then rises to his feet, easily bearing my weight on his one arm and carrying me across the floor; normally I'd be mortified at such a course of action but days of normalcy are long since dead and gone, and now I welcome such care. I never want him to let me go. Then I hear the creaking of bedsprings and I open one eye; peeking over my shoulder I see that we have relocated to my bed, his back to the door. He settles me onto his knee and with a muffled sigh I turn my face back into Thorin's chest, shutting out the world once more, content to remain where I am.

It is a long time before my uncle breaks the silence. "So, little sparrow," he murmurs, his voice warm, "You've had quite a time of it, haven't you?"

My fingers close around the rough fabric of his shirt and I bury my nose there, unwilling to think on my recent nightmares of reality. I can only hum wearily in response.

His soft breath blows against my ear and his hand rests on the back of my neck, squeezing it slightly and easing the tension away. "Why don't you tell me about it," he says quietly. It's not a question, but not a demand, either; more like a gentle suggestion.

_Aye, why don't I._ Except that I don't know how, don't know where to begin. It doesn't even make sense anymore, except to start at the beginning... but the beginning seems so far in the ancient past, now, ages ago, and a lifetime of hurt and pain has happened since. I can't think how to explain all of this. Instead, I lay my ear over my uncle's heart and concentrate on its steady, pulsating rhythm. "Dunno how," I mumble sadly.

Uncle Thorin fingers the soft hair at the nape of my neck. "Alright. How about I help you. Let's start where it all began." His rough thumb thoughtfully traces circles over that sensitive spot, filling the pause proceeding his next sentence. "Other lads were heckling you and though you ignored it– trying to prove your own maturity and self-restraint– their words only grew more hurtful and fierce, until the day came when your patience met its end."

He stops, and I inhale sharply with surprise. He knows a lot more than I had thought.

"I gather I am right, then," he says.

"Y-yes..."

"What did you do?"

I gulp nervously. It's a long moment before I answer. "I... I bloodied their leader's nose and walked away."

My uncle chuckles, the rich sound rumbling deep in his throat. "I would've done a lot more than that," he says, amusement plain. "Clearly you have more sense than I would've had." He waits a few seconds before continuing. "He didn't leave it at that, though, did he?"

Reluctantly, I shake my head, but I say no more. My fingers tighten nervously around my uncle's tunic and he sighs quietly.

"Kíli," he murmurs compassionately. "You must tell me. You have carried this thing with you for far too long. Now speak. Tell me what happened."

Frowning, I slowly open my eyes and take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts as best I can. This dark, unhappy thing that I have carried in my heart is slowly coaxed out, bit by bit, by my patient guardian. I tell him of the first duel, then the second, and then the third. With each carefully-worded question he pulls another piece of the story out of me; he listens to my stuttering explanations, my shame-filled admittances of failure, and never says a single word to condemn me. My words don't come easily to me, for though I am comforted by the understanding that I had completely misjudged what his reaction would be, I am still sorrowful at having to admit the whole ordeal to my uncle. However, he quietly draws the long, sorry tale out of me until I am left red-faced and miserable once more, only comforted by his gentle hold on me. I wait in breathless agony for his final assessment.

My uncle is quiet for a long time; I am beginning to think that he is hopelessly ashamed of me after all when he finally speaks.

"Oh, Kíli," he sighs. My heart sinks at his weary tone, but he caresses my hair fondly and continues in a soft, almost humbled manner. "My stalwart, stubborn little sparrow," he whispers. "Not a sparrow any longer, I think; an eaglet." He runs his fingers gently through my disheveled hair before reaching down and plucking tenderly at my chin, upturning my face from its hiding place in his shirt. "How have you carried this burden alone all this time?" he asks in a low, gravelly voice. "And what for? Why have you gone to such lengths to conceal it from us?"

It takes no small ounce of courage to meet his gaze. Tentatively I force myself to look into his face, his grey-blue eyes, still somewhat fearful of what I will find there– and there is sadness on his face, but all I see in the clear depths of his eyes is unmitigated adoration. I swallow hard, realizing that my uncle holds more faith and affection for me than I had given him credit for.

"I didn't... I didn't want you to think less of me," I answer in a small voice. "I could take it if you and Mum just thought I was acting foolishly with my peers, but not that I couldn't stand up for myself; not that I couldn't hold my own in a fight."

Amazement slowly spreads over his features. "For this alone you remained silent?"

I bite my lip. "I did not want you to think me weak."

He shakes his head slowly. "I would never think that."

"Or a coward," I add hastily.

"Nor that," he replies, sounding almost surprised.

Frowning, I continue. "I did not want you to be ashamed of me."

It is my uncle's turn to frown. "Aule, lad, why would I be ashamed of you?"

My eyes widen, desperate for him to understand. "Because I failed so many times in battle with the same opponent, and so badly," I explain, my words all coming out in a rush, "And he has made me a laughingstock of my peers, and I am a prince of the royal line, and everything I've done up until now reflects badly on the rest of the family and it's wholly embarrassing and humiliating, and everyone knows it, and I know it, and. . . " Words fail me abruptly, and I can only stare up at my uncle helplessly, my eyes pleading for his understanding.

He studies my face intently for a few moments before shaking his head firmly, his jaw set. "Kíli, there is precious little that you could possibly do that would ever cause me to be ashamed of you... and losing a fighting match to an honor-less, degenerate dwarfling, no matter how many times, is not one of them. You see failure; I see perseverance and maturity beyond your years." He cups my face in his large hand and looks me hard in the eyes. "Listen to me, boy: I am _proud_ of you. I am so very proud of you. You need never be afraid that at the first sign of you struggling I shall suddenly lose all faith in you and leave you by the wayside. I promise you that shall _never_ happen. Don't ever forget that." He releases me and wraps his arm around me.

"You also need not carry such weighty problems on your young shoulders alone, Kíli," he insists. "I am here to help you. I don't want you to fear my judgement."

I shake my head fervently. "I know, Uncle, but..." I take a deep breath. "You can't fix this for me; if someone digs me out of this now, I'll have someone running to my rescue for the rest of my life. I _need_ to fix this myself. But..." I lean into him once more, feeling overwhelmed once more. "... I don't know how."

Uncle Thorin studies me quietly for a while before grasping my shoulder firmly and pulling me closer to him once more, a smile slowly growing on his care-worn features.

"I may not be able to solve your problem for you, Kíli," he says quietly, a familiar twinkle appearing in his eyes, "But I can give you the tools to solve it yourself."

* * *

_**To be continued. . .**_

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Heavens. I thought I would never finish this chapter. The Blue Canary is exceptionally pleased with himself and is currently strutting all over my desk. Silly muse. Now he's pecking at my screen frantically– NO! Don't do that, little bird! Reviews will come; be patient!_

_Please review before he damages my screen– I only just got my laptop back and am enjoying having it in a REPAIRED state!_

(Boring Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's lovely characters, nor am I receiving monetary profit from their existence in my writing.)


	7. Chapter VII

_**A/N**__: The hiatus has ENDED! In short, college was a nightmare, I screamed into pillows often, writing was impossible, and I have finally been mercifully freed by the wonderful savior known as Summer Break. Yes, you may now commence with your applause and cheers of joy._

_Allow me to pause and, as usual, give this space of honor and thanks to my fantastic reviewers: __**Vault108, Craic agus Ceol, wardog85, I Am The Wind, Gladoo89, Kermitty, LilaPanthera, People Person I'm Not, rodeocat, Purestrongpoem, SwiftArcher, **__my dear partner-in-crime __**Italian Hobbit**__**, Cockapoo, obviously-not, tweetzone86, maplewind, BM originally, ScarletLeon, Kíli-on-my-wayward-sherlock, gpgal, kataz, Pirate-chan, Poiroo, Fey Nim, Macy12, rollewithbutter, chestry007, Ballykissangel, Jedi Ani Unduli, LiL PriNCeSs Me, **__the lovely __**Neocolai, Sheeshasan, **__two __**guest reviewers, OlaNaTungee, ilovevollyball, **__and __**Lia Whyteleafe.**_

_Thank you, my loyal readers, for sticking with me. Now, t'is time for the next installment._

* * *

**Chapter VII**

* * *

**_"_****_So sweet the hour, so calm the time,_**

**_I feel it more than half a crime,_**

**_When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,_**

**_To mar the silence ev'n with lute."_****_  
_**

- _Edgar Allan Poe, "__A __Serenade"_

* * *

Peace is a marvelous thing, a marvelous feeling.

Not until this moment could I remember what it was like not to have a crushing weight pressing down on me, a suffocating feeling pressing down on my chest, smothering the very breath from my lungs.

For the first time in nearly two months the darkness of night does not oppress me. I do not sink into it with the wretched feelings of loneliness, of anger and hurt. I am not overwhelmed by an increasingly growing desire to sleep and never wake up, if only to avoid another day of lies, confusion, and self-loathing. Instead I am slipping peacefully into blissful comfort, the soft oblivion of sleep, with a rekindled spirit burning deep within me. There are difficult times yet to come but the days ahead do not seem nearly so bleak, for I no longer have to face them alone. I realize to my shame that I never had to face these troubles alone to begin with; I had badly misjudged my uncle.

I had tortured myself with visions of Thorin being quite furious with me, appalled at my inability to fend off one of my own peers in such humiliating circumstances and chastising me thoroughly. I imagined him being shocked and dismayed, unable to accept that such a weakling could come from _his _royal family line, and berating me for all that I am lacking in character and abilities. Worse, I pictured Thorin turning away from me grey-faced and weary, unable to look at me in the eye for the shame I brought on his head, and silently leaving me alone without a word of comfort _or _rebuke.

I had not thought for a moment that my confessions would yield such opposite results.

I never expected kindness, or mercy, or understanding. I never expected my uncle to speak with me so gently, to hold me close as I rode out my blackest emotions and wept such ridiculously piteous tears. I never expected him to receive my tale so calmly, and to be surprised that I had even thought he would be upset with me at all. Not once did he show even the slightest form of displeasure; instead he listened to me quietly, stroked my hair, and dried my tears. From beneath his gruff exterior emerged the warmest of smiles reserved only for his kin, and as he pressed me firmly to his chest he quietly whispered to me the plan of action that we will take to set things right.

His compassion makes me ashamed that I did not come to him in the first place. For, as stern and emotionally reserved of a dwarf as he may be, could I forget the affection that he has always held for my brother and I since we were born? Could I not remember the amused smiles, teasing eyes, roaring laughter and playful roughhousing bestowed on us throughout our childhood, however rarely they occur? For is it not the frequency, but _depth_ of the expression of tenderness that is important? Should Thorin need to tell us every day, remind us constantly that his sister and her sons are what he holds dearest? It would be nice, but it is not his way – and it is alright, for we know his heart.

Yet, it seems that for a while I forgot.

I became so caught up in matters of honor and pride, the desire to succeed and to remain favorable in Uncle Thorin's eye that I forgot that he is just that: my uncle. He may be the great exiled prince, the King Under the Mountain, but in relation to me he is my _uncle_, first and foremost. Maybe that will change someday, but for now this is how the matter lies. I know this to be true, for as I settled into bed and he pulled the covers over me, he bent down low and hoarsely murmured in my ear:

"You are my nephew – my sister son... my offspring. This shall always be."

Then he had kissed the top of my head and silently departed.

Now I lie here in the soft and quiet darkness of my room, left to the sanctuary of my bed. Any feelings of guilt concerning my false assumptions about my uncle are softly squelched by my overwhelming sense of relief and fatigue. Having lost all sense of hunger and being as weary as I am from the upset of the day, Thorin had urged me to turn in early out of concern for my well-being. I did not argue.

As I wriggle further down beneath the warm blankets my mind revels in its great ease, yet I am keenly aware of Fíli's absence and I find I miss him. I have not spoken with him since the night before and there are many things I would like to say to him; I wish that he were here with me right now. In fact, I rather wish that we could share a bed together for the night, falling asleep entwined in each other's arms as we always have – that is, before our uncle deemed us too old for such things in the past year and we were given our own separate beds. I yearn for the familiar sound of his heartbeat in my ear, however, rather than my own lonely pulse thudding softly into my pillow. I suddenly feel that painful ache I have become accustomed to, and I can only sigh regretfully and hope I can mend our increasing estrangement before it is too late.

My thoughts begin to wander and my mind starts setting itself adrift in the inky blackness of the subconscious, the wispy tendrils of sleep slowly seeping into my battered body. I am almost completely dozed off when I am jarred sharply awake by the _click_ of the doorknob turning, the creaking of the bedroom door swinging gently open on its hinges. I can only expect that it is Fíli, unable to stay away any longer, despite Thorin surely warning him to allow me to fall asleep undisturbed. My back is faced to the door so I cannot see him, but the smallest of smiles sneaks its way onto my face; it is typical behavior of my brother to sneak past the adults to make sure for himself that I am safe and in one piece. I wait for the sound of his stocking feet padding cautiously across the floor, wait for him to peer over my shoulder tentatively, worrying like a mother hen.

The footsteps are not his, however, and I cannot suppress my initial disappointment. My heart skids to a grinding halt as I realize that it is not my uncle, either. The mattress groans and sinks as someone sits beside me, brushing lightly against my back.

"Kíli?" Her tone is quiet, weary; she lays her hand softly on my shoulder.

My eyes remain shut and I continue to breath steadily; I remain fearful of my mother's temper and am not prepared to bear any more of her wrath tonight.

"I know you are awake. You can fool your uncle," she says, her voice thick with emotion, "But you cannot fool me."

Wincing slightly, worried at being caught in my small deception, I slowly open my eyes; taking an apprehensive breath I turn over on my back to face her. Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of her reddened eyes and dried tear tracks on her cheeks, just visible in the pale light streaming in from the open door.

"Mama!" I whisper, surprised and confused. "What's wrong?"

She doesn't answer me right away. Instead, her care-worn hands seek out my face in the semi-darkness and caress my hair tremulously; she shakes her head slowly, lips trembling and dark eyes glistening anew.

"Everything. Namely, me. _I'm _what's wrong," she gasps hoarsely. "Oh, my _**boy.**_" Without warning she reaches down and pulls me to her bosom, her face buried in my hair and then in the crook of my neck. She chokes back a sob. "My poor boy. What have I done?"

I swallow hard, realizing Thorin must have filled her in on what has occurred. Great remorse floods through me; never in a thousand years would I want to hurt my mother, and it frightens me when she is overcome by tears. My mother is a strong woman; tears in her eyes have only ever occurred in times of great hardship.

"Mum," I entreat her softly, my heart seizing in my chest, "Don't cry. It's fine; it's alright."

"It's _not_ alright," she cries brokenly, holding me more tightly. "It's all wrong, and it's all my fault." She strokes me with the desperate affection of a mother bear whose cub has been gravely wounded, all the while trying to maintain her composure. "Kíli... sweet Kíli. Nothing I can say can atone for what I have done. I am so very sorry."

I touch her elbow with my free hand. "You didn't know. Y-You couldn't have known."

"I didn't, but I _could _have. I could have done more to find out. I could have sat down and refused to leave you until you told me, or somehow gone to find out myself, or–"

"Mother," I solemnly interrupt, my own eyes beginning to sting. "Nothing you could say would've made me tell the truth. I was afraid. I w-wanted to spare you... I didn't want you to be ashamed of me." I close my eyes tightly, trying to keep my own emotions in check. "It was a well-kept secret. I was willing to do anything and everything I could to hide it from you, no matter what."

She touches her cheek to mine and I feel the wetness of freshly-fallen tears. A shuddering breath escapes her before she can speak again. "How many times have I chastised you so harshly, believing you were straying down a crooked path? How many times have I hurt you and you bore it silently? Oh, my son... my _child... _please forgive me. I did not know." This time, a mournful sob escapes her and I can feel it shake her entire frame. "Eru, have mercy on this poor excuse for a mother. I have wronged my child greatly."

Distraught, I free myself from her hold and pull back, gently grasping her face much as she had done with mine moments before. A lone tear escapes from my eye and slips quickly down my chin.

"Mama, _listen _to me," I implore, desperate for her to understand. "It's not your fault. The fault is mine. It's _all __**mine.**_"

She reaches up and grasps my wrists gently in her own hands, pulling them down to her lap and softly pressing them together. "No, my heart. It is not all your fault. You are being bullied–"

"– It's not bullying, Mum; it's different."

Dark, tear-filled eyes grow serious as she holds my gaze. "You are being bullied," she firmly repeats, raising her eyebrows slightly and squeezing my wrists gently in emphasis. Her voice is hoarse with grief but her tone leaves no room for contradiction. "It is true that you kept your secret well. Nevertheless, I was too quick to believe that you were the one instigating trouble, with no proof, and nothing from your own lips. For that, I am sorry."

For the second time this evening I am stunned. My mother is a proud woman confident in her ways; I have never seen her so humbled. Her remorse is genuine; her horror at her own actions is so tangible, and all I want to do is erase the pain in her loving eyes.

I throw myself into her arms, hugging her as tightly as I dare.

"I know, Mama; I forgive you," I say whole-heartedly. "We both made mistakes... but everything will be fine real soon, I know it, so you needn't cry any more. I'm going to fix everything."

My mother holds me gently, softly laughing so quietly under her breath that I almost miss it.

"Sweet Kíli," she murmurs. "Your selflessness is admirable, indeed." Her fingers comb through my hair, lingering, as she whispers; "Do you know how much I love you?"

I raise my eyes and meet her gaze, answering her with a bright, adoring smile. No words are necessary.

* * *

I am just beginning to feel good about myself when I am abruptly reacquainted with the hard and muddied ground, my face splashing into sloshy snow.

"You got too confident," Thorin remonstrates.

Dazed, I push myself onto my knees and spit out the offending slush. "I know, I know," I grumble, annoyed and embarrassed; I scramble to my feet after I pause to catch my breath, wiping the bit of mud from my face as best I can. "At least it's a _change_."

"But not a good one." My uncle knows I spoke in cold jest but by his tone I know he doesn't appreciate my sarcasm. At his reproachful look I lower my eyes contritely and study the sparring rod in my hands.

"Resist the temptation to rest on your laurels," he says sternly. "Instead, channel the exhilaration of success into something productive: energy and concentration. Never allow yourself to celebrate in the middle of a battle. Now– again."

Taking a deep breath and releasing it with a mildly frustrated huff, I regain focus and repeat the sequence of strokes we had practiced before. This time I anticipate Thorin's upward thrust and neatly deflect it with a satisfying _clack._

"Good!" His frown fades, a small smile tugging on his lips as he gives me a curt nod. "You're learning." He stands down and waits for me to do the same before he continues.

"So! I'm going to teach you another little trick. I think you shall find this especially of use: observe." He turns to a nearby wooden dummy and I follow, watching with rapt attention as he assumes a defensive stance.

"Your opponent decides to rush you. He's gathering all of his strength to throw his power into one attack." My uncle positions his rod in front of him as he speaks. "Instead of simply attempting to turn aside the blow, you circumvent it completely and circle neatly around your opponent." He begins to move slowly so as to show me the movements. "You circle the weapon..."

I watch, fascinated, as his rod brushes the air against the imaginary sword of his attacker, and circles while he makes a tight turn around himself; he juts his elbow sharply at the dummy's stomach, finishing with a second turn and a sharp downward stroke. Twice he repeats the sequence at normal speed before turning to me. I must bear a silly expression of mixed awe and nervousness because there is a sparkle in his eye when he speaks.

"What do you think?"

I try not sound as uncertain as I feel. "It looks a bit... difficult."

"It isn't too much so, once you understand the footwork." With a small inclination of his head he gestures for me to approach and I respond accordingly; he faces the dummy with me beside him. "Now, follow along."

He slowly goes through the motions with the dummy again, this time with me imitating his movements close by. We do this a few times and then Thorin has me take the position in front of the dummy. "You do it," he orders.

Swallowing, I square my shoulders and do just that. Without my uncle to follow, however, my footwork is awkward and I realize mid-turn that my feet are not where they ought to be. I do my best to complete the maneuver but when I finish I frown darkly, shaking my head. I try it once more with the same result. "I'm not getting this so well."

"Have patience," Uncle Thorin asserts. "Try it again."

I obediently comply and attempt the sequence several times, but I still struggle greatly. Finally I stop, puff the hair out of my eyes in self-exasperation, and am about to declare the situation hopeless when my uncle lays down his own sparring rod and approaches me. Taking me by the shoulders he firmly turns me about to the starting position once more, grasps his hands over mine on the rod, and places his feet on either sides of mine.

"Slowly now," he mutters. "Watch and _feel._"

We move together as one unit, Thorin saying the directions and steps out loud. Once more we move together before he backs off to the side, commanding me to do it on my own; finally I am successful and he nods his approval. I feel pride rise within me at the pleased expression on his face but I try to cork it up for now, knowing that the most challenging part is yet to come. Now I must attempt this maneuver on my uncle at normal speed, without hesitation or downward glances at my feet. We begin, and on my first try I lose my rod, Uncle Thorin sending it flying as I attempt to circumvent his blow.

"Ahh. You forgot about your sword," says he. "You're concentrating too heavily on the footwork. Your eyes weren't down but you were mentally focused downward. Again."

I perform better on my second attempt, and with each repeat my performance improves just a bit. Again and again we work through the maneuver, my uncle pointing out my mistakes each time until I can correct them. I am panting heavily, hoarsely, the sweat pouring down my face before I finally complete the entire maneuver without significant error and he cries:

"Excellent! Well done."

Praise from Uncle Thorin is as priceless as mithril; not given lightly, I know that I have earned it. Exhausted but extremely pleased, I grin back at him with joyful self-satisfaction, feeling quite proud of myself. With an encouraging pat to my shoulder Thorin finally releases me to the customary break period, and I happily trudge towards the copse of trees shading the border of the training grounds.

A flash of tawny-gold in the bright sunlight alerts me to my brother's presence long before I actually spot him hanging on the railing. When at last I can see his face appear in the shadow of the trees I can't help my explosive smile, which reflects Fíli's own cheerful countenance.

"Congratulations, you feisty squirrel," he chirps, tossing me my canteen. "You're becoming a seasoned warrior at an alarming rate. I am jealous."

I laugh at that, loud and clear – the first laugh I have experienced in ages – and it feels good. Fíli notices it too because his eyes widen a bit then soften considerably, his smile growing warmer.

I take a deep drink of water before answering. "Uncle Thorin's a good teacher, is all," I reply modestly, though my chest puffs up a bit and I stand a little taller at my brother's words; for Fíli to have witnessed my accomplishments on the field today is quite a flattering thing, but to admit any envy of _my _fighting skills— which, as a rule, are inferior to his— is an overwhelming honor.

"A teacher is only as good as his student," Fíli replies brightly.

I raise an eyebrow and snort. "I think you have that backwards."

Fíli's grin grows wider. "Just take the compliment, you idiot."

Smirking, I roll my eyes at him before laughing once more, genuine and happy. Mahal, I feel so free.

We both fall silent as I lean against the tree tiredly, taking another swig of water and resting my weary limbs. I notice my brother watching me intently, a funny look on his face.

"What?" I finally ask. I self-consciously wipe at the dried mud on my cheek, wondering what he suddenly finds so fascinating about my appearance.

He shakes his head. "You," he says, his voice mild, a cryptic look in his eyes.

"Me."

"Aye, you. You're bright as daylight, chipper as a bird, and ornery as a bull calf."

"Congratulations on your enlightening discoveries," I drawl. "Anything else?"

Fíli chuckles quietly. "It's been so long since you've truly been yourself, and it's refreshing." He pauses, his expression growing wistful. "I can't remember the last time we've bantered like this, or had a real conversation... before that afternoon at the archery range."

The water sits heavy in my stomach as the truth of his words hit me hard. I stare at him, realizing with a bit of fright that I have no recent memory of any of our normal interaction... and I can not recall even when it ceased to occur. When did I stop talking to my brother and start bottling everything in my troubled heart? When did I stop accepting his help and advice and start retreating into my darkened mind? When did the entity known as Fíli-And-Kíli cease to exist, to be replaced by two separate beings who are neither sound nor whole without the other?

Overwhelmed with remorse, I look away from my brother and stare at a pile of melting snow a few feet away, noticing the new grass peeking out from beneath it. My throat grows very, very tight. How much time has passed between us, ever widening the slowly-growing gulf that separates us?

Sensing my dismay, Fíli quickly drops the subject. "But no matter," he says gruffly. "Such things are nothing to be concerned with. What's in the past, stays past."

During the ensuing silence I venture a look in his direction to see him gazing thoughtfully into the distance, leaning over the rail and smiling a bit as the warm breeze blows against his face. Something warm bubbles up inside of me, something irresistible and nonsensical, and all of a sudden I feel that the only thing that matters in this entire world is for Fíli to know that I care and I'm sorry; that I miss him and want him back, and that I'd do anything to repair the damage I've done to our friendship. With this intense desire, however, comes a sense of helplessness.

"Fíli..." I say quietly, my voice thin with anguish.

He turns quickly at my unhappy tone of my voice. His blue eyes dim, shadowing with concern. "Yes, Kee?"

I start approaching him with hands outstretched, willing the healing words to my lips, the ones that will surely mend the rubble that was once my unbreakable relationship with my other half... but I cannot find them. It all comes out in a useless jumble.

"I'm sorry I d-didn't... " my voice stutters, "I wasn't... I couldn't... I didn't know how..." Frustrated at my inability to voice my deepest regrets, I just stare at him, imploringly, beseeching him with eyes that are already growing damp. _You're my brother, and I love you, and I can't live without you, and could you ever forgive me for locking you out of my life and losing the key?_

Fíli returns my gaze with a solemn one of his own. Soon he stands tall, pushing himself away from the railing before walking steadily towards me; he stops short right in front of me, regarding me long and hard for a moment. I meet his calm blue-eyed gaze with my own one, desperate and dark. Then a cheeky smile erupts, belying the water that is suddenly brimming in his eyes, and he grabs me in a crushing hug, almost pulling me off of my feet.

"I know, Kíli," is all he says, voice muffled in my shoulder. "I know."

When I recover from my surprise I return the gesture, my arms wrapping around his sturdy frame. "Friends?" I ask, tentatively.

Fíli gives a wet laugh. "Always," he whispers.

* * *

_**To be continued. . .**_

* * *

_**A/N: **__The Blue Canary was so angry and despondent at having been abandoned for nearly two months that when I tried to write he absolutely refused to inspire me. I was forced to turn to Italian Hobbit for help, and our skype chats produce an interesting assortment of, uh, things (think: Star Trek/Hobbit crossover and Kíli the Pink Energizer Bunny). You can check it out by visiting my tumblr page, at __**nalbal **__dot __**tumblr**__ dot __**com**__._

_Friends, I have a request: since many of you are asking/begging/demanding I write more Durin family fics, I would like to know what are some things you'd like to see. Please shoot me a few PM's with any ideas/requests that you may have. I'm not making promises, but except for one extremely gut-wrenching, angst/grief-filled fic, I haven't had any ideas. Inspire me!_

(Boring Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's lovely characters, nor am I receiving monetary profit from their existence in my writing.)


	8. Chapter VIII

_**A/N**__: Did somebody say 'summer school'? Sigh. My work is never done, it seems. *holds head in hands and sobs pitifully* _

_Of course, thanks goes to my reviewers __**VictoireAgathon, MoonCrown, People Person I'm Not, Gladoo89, Macy12, Purestrongpoem, chestry007, Italian Hobbit, Cockapoo, Jedi Ani Unduli, Fey Nim, BM originally, maplewind, wardog85, Vault108, Horserida, **__and my guests __**ilovevollyball, Dear Aule, Lizzie, **__and __**MistakenMagic!**_

_Read on, my friends. The end is near, oh so very near. . ._

* * *

Chapter VIII

* * *

_**"From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth **_

_**A passionate light - such for his spirit was fit - **_

_**And yet that spirit knew - not in the hour **_

_**Of its own fervor - what had o'er it power."**_

- _Edgar Allan Poe, "In Youth I have Known One"_

* * *

My first conscious thought is that someone is rudely shaking me.

"_Kíli!" _a voice calls sharply. _"Kíli!"_

I am so entrapped by all-consuming terror that I am willing to forgive the painful grip on my shoulders and eagerly latch onto the familiar voice. I try to accept the aid of my rescuer but the iron grip of my unforgiving dream is strong.

"_Com'on, Kee," _the voice insists, more persistent now, more anxious. "_Wake up."_

With all my mental strength I will my eyes to open, but they merely flutter for a fraction of a second—my bedroom flashing in my vision—before I am sucked under once more. A dry sob of frustration lurches from my throat, whether real or dreamt I am uncertain.

"_Wake up, little brother. It's just a nightmare," _soothes the voice, which I gradually recognize as Fíli's. He shakes me once more. _"Open your eyes, Kíli; com'on."_

His physical forcefulness frees me from the throes of my dream with a sharp jolt. Suddenly I am wide awake, bolting upright and staring breathlessly into the concerned face of my brother. His worried blue eyes reflect the lambent light of a nearby lamp, sharply contrasting with the dark shadows flickering strangely over his features. I stare at him wordlessly, frozen, and then as I remember how to breathe I start panting rapid, shallow gasps of air.

"Hey there," murmurs Fíli. "S'okay. T'was just a dream." His little frown of worry bears an uncanny resemblance to that of Uncle Thorin. As his eyes rove over me I blink groggily, turning to gaze hungrily at the reassuring light of the lamp on the bedside table. For a while the silence is broken only by my harsh breathing.

"Do you—" Fíli asks uncertainly, "—well, you know. Need to talk about it?"

I shake my head. "Can't," I say honestly, wiping the cold sweat off my brow with my nightshirt sleeve. "I don't remember anything… except b-being scared." I can feel the heat of embarrassment rise in my face as I realize that I am trembling.

Fíli's hands remain on my shoulders. He nods mutely before offering me a soft smile and tipping forward, leaning his forehead against mine in brotherly reassurance.

"Those are the worst," he sighs. After a quiet moment he adds lightly, "Maybe you dreamt Mum caught you with your hand in the biscuit jar again."

Too shaken to make good a reply, I can only snort at the absurdity of his remark. We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes until my breathing evens out and the trembling ceases; only then does Fíli sit back on his heels and regard me with a critical eye.

"You worried about tomorrow?" he asks me pointedly.

Mildly surprised I raise my eyes to his. "I guess so," I eventually reply, shrugging slightly. At his unwavering gaze I sigh and amend my answer: "Yes, a bit. Maybe a lot bit, alright?" I bow my head wearily and pick at a loose thread on my blanket. "Can you blame me?"

Fíli shakes his head. "Of course not. But you shouldn't. I mean, I understand—but it's going to be different this time, Kee. You're ready for them now, ready to put them in their places. You'll see."

"I hope so," I mumble sleepily, rubbing at my eyes.

My brother slaps me gently on my knee with a reassuring smile before hopping off my bed. He leans forward and makes to turn off the lamp but stops, glancing back over his shoulder at me. "I can leave it on low, if you like," he offers kindly.

Briefly I consider the idea before shaking my head. "No thanks; it's fine."Mahal forbid I act like a baby scared of the dark, too.

"Y'sure?"

"Yeah-yeah, I'm sure." To back up my unconvincing reply I lie back down and settle myself neatly under the blankets, flashing Fíli a little smile. As soon as the firelight extinguishes, however, the smile vanishes and I shiver slightly, scrunching down and holding the blanket tightly in my fist. _I'm not going to admit I'm afraid to go back to sleep._

It seems I don't need to, for I forget that Fíli can read me better than anyone; it's a rare thing if I am able to hide my distress from him. After some noisy rustling about he returns to my side with his own pillow, clambering blindly onto the mattress.

"Move over, you bed hog," he orders me imperiously. He doesn't wait for an answer as he bodily pushes me out of the way and slaps his pillow beside mine, whisking aside the blankets and scrambling beneath them.

"Fíli, what—"

"I knew I should've fed the fire before going to bed. Now it's gone out and it's freezing in here," he complains cheerfully, interrupting my budding protest, "But I'm too tired and lazy to do anything about it now. I'd rather just do this. Aren't you cold?" He slides beside me, pulling the covers firmly over both of us.

I hesitate in my reply. "Won't Uncle Thorin be annoyed? He said we're too old for this."

"Would you stop worrying?" Fíli retorts laughingly, snuggling close and throwing his arm carelessly over me. "Worrying about repercussions has always been my job—and it's so _cold_." He continues, a little more gently, "I somehow don't think he'd really mind this time."

I can't help smiling at him; even though he can't see it I know he can hear it in my voice when I finally speak. "Thanks, Fee," I murmur softly.

"I know, I'm the greatest," he answers cheekily, immersing himself more firmly into the pillow. "You can expect a bill for my services."

"You are also impossible," I yawn, drawing even closer and nestling firmly against him.

He settles his chin in my hair. I can practically feel his grin as he speaks. "You're welcome."

Encompassed in the warmth of our platonic embrace, I soon fall peacefully asleep.

* * *

Even with Balin's interminably dry history lesson the morning slips by far too quickly. If I am more distracted than usual Balin does not scold me; in fact, he strangely does not seem to notice. When I catch myself moodily staring off into space, it's Fíli who is called upon to recite dates or a passage of poetry. Before I know what's happening our session is over. With a parting pat on our shoulders—though Balin's hand lingers on mine—our beloved white-haired tutor sends us on home for lunch.

Afterwards is our afternoon training with the other lads. The instructor does not seem to notice that I hang back, melting into the rear of the line and avoiding his roving gaze. Fíli knows that I am trying to preserve my strength and he quickly rises to the occasion: when the instructor asks for a volunteer and looks our way, Fíli immediately steps forward. When the instructor is searching for someone to single out for a demonstration, Fíli effectively blocks me from view. Finally, when are told to select a sparring partner Fíli quickly chooses me, pretending to fight with much greater force than is true.

Afternoon comes… and all too soon, it is time.

My brother is lying idly on his bed, watching me putter around our small room in both preparation and useless agitation. "Kíli, are you alright?" he asks me as I disappear from his view, burrowing under my bed. "Your face is about the color of chalk."

"I _feel _like chalk," I huff. "My mouth has gone dry, my feet seem to stick to the floor, and I feel ready to crumble if there's any more pressure." I drag out my dulled practice sword and clamber to my feet, giving a dry laugh at the mildly alarmed look on Fíli's face. "I'm fine. It's just butterflies, is all; nothing I haven't felt before."

I begin to strap on the sword; Fíli gives a questioning nod. "Haven't you been using the sparring rod?"

"I was informed that Besor has changed his choice of weapon," I explain quietly. "I think he is finally growing tired of his games." I huff a little as I struggle with my sheath buckle. "Well, so be it. I'm tired of them, too—and him."

Fíli grunts in response, eyeing me with a thoughtful expression. He watches my nervous efforts for a few silent moments before interrupting me.

"No, no," he says, causing me to raise my head. "Stop. You need…" He trails off and suddenly jumps up, scurrying over to our small chest and opening one of my drawers. Before I can ask questions he pulls out an article of clothing and solemnly holds it out for me to see.

"Wear this," he dictates simply.

I gasp slightly and blink in confusion. It is a blue velvet jerkin with silver-threaded trimmings on the hem and a plain silver belt hanging loosely around the waist. Fashioned for me by our mother—with a matching one for Fíli—it is a very special article of clothing reserved for equally special occasions. It looks remarkably similar to a jerkin that Uncle Thorin owns and wears so rarely, one that identifies his lineage.

"My _royal _jerkin?" I squeak. "Fíli, I can't wear that! What if I ruined it somehow? Mum would tan my hide, hang me out to dry, and then hand me over to Uncle Thorin who'd tan me more and then pickle me for good measure. No way."

Fíli smiles at me wryly. "I think you'll be fine this one time."

I shake my head emphatically. "Brother, I'm not kidding!"

"And neither am I," Fíli insists. "Look, Kee, listen to me. I think that today is going to be the end. I've been watching you for the past two weeks as you've been working with Uncle and I can tell you that you've improved immensely. You are going to _win_ today." He steps forward and lays the jerkin on my bed. "But you've also got to put those fellows in their place. You've gotta remind them of your status as part of the royal line—that you're a prince, an heir, and that someday they're going to be your subjects." He smiles at me grimly. "Nobody pushes around one of Durin's blood."

Frowning, I reach over and finger the fine material. "So I wear this. And if I lose?"

Fíli shakes his head. "You won't."

"But if I do?" I say, persistent.

Fíli sighs harshly and grabs me by my arms. "Kíli! You _won't._ Trust me on this. I can feel it with every fiber of my being." He gives me a little shake before continuing. "And you need to believe it, too; there can't be any room for doubt. As Mister Balin would say, the power of thought is a mighty thing."

Standing quietly, I tear my gaze away from his and look once more at the striking jerkin. I mull things over, weighing the options in my mind.

"Yeah, you're right—about everything." I wrinkle my nose and gesture my head over to the blue clothing. "But what if I tarnish that thing?"

"Ahh, Kee." Fíli smiles at me indulgently. "I'm sure it wouldn't be more than a little cleaning couldn't fix. Besides, I think that when you win, Mum and Uncle will be too proud to care."

Unable to think of another argument I am forced to acquiesce. I pull the rich fabric over my head and with shaking fingers I fumble with the leather laces, trying to think only positive thoughts.

* * *

"I'm coming with you."

"No, I'm going alone."

"Kíli, I'm coming along."

"No!"

"Yes, I am."

I grind my teeth, trying my hardest not to lose my temper. Fíli and I have been arguing like this for a few minutes now and it seems that I'm not making any headway. My brother stands dressed in an identical blue jerkin, the stubborn set of his jaw mirroring my own.

"Look, Fíli," I bite out, forcing my voice to remain calm and even, "I'm trying to make you understand. I've got to finish this on _my_ own, _my _way."

"And I'm trying to make _you_ understand," snaps Fíli, sounding as exasperated as I feel, "That I will happily let you do everything by yourself, but I'm not letting you walk into that lion's den alone again. I thought that we made a deal. I thought I made it clear to you that things are going to be different for now on. We're going back to the way we always handled problems: together."

My surge of anger dissipates as quickly as it appeared when I notice the subtle expression of hurt on Fíli's face. My shoulders slump in defeat and I exhale heavily.

"Fíli…"

"The reforging of our friendship begins here and now, Kíli," he interrupts. "I can't fight for you this time—I know that—but I can lend you strength just by my presence." He steps forward and tries to catch my eye, his voice quieting but losing none of his conviction. "Let me be your brother again. Please?"

How can I say no to that? Evidently sensing my failing resolve, Fíli continues.

"I just want to be at your side or guarding your back. I promise not to interfere in any way, squirrel, but just let me be there for you. Besor has his confederates," Fíli says, smiling a little, "But you've got me."

The earnestness shining on his face is enough to quell any further fears or protests on my part. He's right. What better way to face down my enemy than with my big brother at my back? Suddenly I feel that, yes, Fíli _must_ go with me, that I cannot go and face them alone even if I must fight them alone. Up until this recent farce my brother and I had faced everything together, all the way from the time our father died when were wee babes. We've always had each other, if nothing else.

Aye, I need my brother.

* * *

My heart beats ever faster as we approach that place; I cannot help it. Like the rawhide drums that play at the great feast of Durin's Day it thumps gradually louder, harder, wilder following a tune all of its own. It throws itself against my rib cage with all the ferocity of a caged animal roaring for freedom, and it actually pains me.

When we are within mere yards of the all-too familiar rock-hewn stairs my breath quickens and grows sharper. Fíli hears this and elbows me softly, startling me so much I almost trip over my own feet. I whip my head around towards him to see him smiling at me, bright and encouraging.

"You're gonna be fine, Kee," Fíli murmurs, slowing to a stop.

I pause a few paces ahead before shuffling back.

"I know, I know," I mutter. I take a deep, shuddering breath, holding it briefly before sharply exhaling. "I just…"

"No 'justs' today, little brother," he intones. His eyes lock with mine and without breaking that contact, he reaches forward and squeezes my arm. "I mean it: you're going to be just fine. Do you doubt my word?"

I shake my head. "It's not your word that I doubt. It's _me _that I doubt."

An almost sour look spoils the previously-mellow expression on Fíli's face. "I thought you promised to leave all self-doubts back home," he reproaches. "No room for those, remember?"

I cringe at his apparent disapproval. "Sorry," I mumble sadly. I hang my head and kick at a pebble by my shoe.

He sighs after a moment. "Kíli…"

"I'm scared," I blurt out abruptly. Continuing in the tiniest voice possible, I say miserably: "There, you see? I am a coward, after all."

Fíli is shocked into silence; I can physically feel him start from surprise, stunned for a few seconds before punching me in the arm… hard. I yelp with astonishment and jerk my head up instantly, rubbing my arm instinctively.

"Don't you ever say such a thing again!" he cries angrily, pointing his finger at me. "Never! You hear me? You are no coward, never have been and never will be. You are one of the bravest people I know, and I know because you are my brother, my own flesh and blood. Cowardice does not run in our family line. You've got guts, Kíli," he adds gruffly, "You've always had them, even when I didn't, and I've always admired you for that."

Utterly speechless, I just stare at him, my hand stilled over the spot where he hit me. This is the second time he has paid me an unexpected compliment and the second time that I have no idea how to receive it. I offer a small, awkward smile in return before shyly averting my gaze, feeling both ashamed of my statement and honored by my brother's words. I open my mouth to say something but he cuts me off with an abrupt bear hug that robs me of my breath. It is a gesture that is short and fierce; he releases me and then looks me squarely in the eye.

"Courage, squirrel," he says, "is not the absence of fear: courage is acting in spite of it. That's what Uncle has always taught us; do not forget his words. You are not a coward for feeling fear, my brother."

Any remaining apprehension about Fíli's presence here evaporates in that second. I accept my need for Fíli's company with great conviction; our bond is too strong to be reckoned with.

He gives me the strength to act with courage.

* * *

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

_**A/N:**__ No real action in this chapter, but it's a regular Fíli-fest so that should make a few of you happy! I was going to make this the final chapter but the Blue Canary, in his everlasting wisdom, advised me to divvy things up into two chapters. His reasoning: make 'em squirm! Yep—if you want the final chapter, you'll have to leave me and the muse lots of nice, juicy, delectable, scrumptious reviews…_

(Boring Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's lovely characters, nor am I receiving monetary profit from their existence in my writing.)


	9. Chapter IX

_**A/N: **__Well, my friends… this is the final installment. On a happy note, this is another monster-sized chapter, beating Chapter 6 by all of fifty words!_

_My last public thank you goes to EVERYONE who has been loyally following along all these months—for all those who have clicked __**follow**__ and/or __**favorite**__, as well as those who have taken the time to review. It's been a pleasure presenting my writing to you, and it has remained a bright spot during this difficult year. Dear reviewers— __**MoonCrown, chestry007, wardog85, Vault108, Thousandsmiles, Cockapoo, Jedi Ani Unduli, Ilovevollyball, BM originally, gpgal, People Person I'm Not, Fey Nim, rollwithbutter, Horserida, Purestrongpoem, MistakenMagic, Abear, LiL PriNCeSs Me, **__plus all those others who have reviewed in the past__**—**__you all rock, as you should well know by now._

_Special kudos for the lovely __**Italian Hobbit**__, my Tolkieniester genius. Thanks for being my awesome writer buddy, and for making sure I didn't fall asleep on my keyboard or randomly die in a car crash, LOL. *huggle*_

_And now, my dear Hobbit enthusiasts, please enjoy the conclusion to this little tale._

* * *

**Chapter IX**

* * *

"_**Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast**_

_**Darkly my Present and my Past**_

_**Let my Future radiant shine**_

_**With sweet hopes of thee and thine!" **_

– _Edgar Allan Poe, "Sancta Maria"_

* * *

The initial noise of the clamorous dwarflings below is incomparable to the profound hush that befalls them when Fíli and I appear over the ridge. All heads rotate; all faces upturn; all eyes are raised upwards. The dwarflings gaze with expressions of bemusement and awe, unprepared for the sight of two blue princes instead of a solitary figure in a dusty tunic.

I count many faces, many more than is customary. Word must have spread that Besor planned on ending the mockery this eve, planned on humiliating me in one last game, and they all came to watch me fail. Not all look upon me with malice; some of these lads and girls are familiar, friendly companions, but I know that even though their loyalties lie with me they still expect me to lose. They lost faith in me long ago.

Not so my brother. When I cast a glance at him, Fíli smiles with such grim confidence that my heart soars at the sight of it. Bah!—I have no need of those down below as I have for my Fíli, who has never stopped believing in me for even a moment.

And as I look down my nose at the lot of them, I feel nothing but a hot, tenacious fire of passion burning comfortably in my chest and slowly growing in size. At that moment, I am unafraid.

I am going to _win_ today.

We stand there a few moments longer before slowly descending the crudely cut stairs—I leading the way—and taking great care to watch our footsteps. When we reach firm ground once more and find ourselves on the edge of the small crowd, the others strangely choose not to swarm around us as they had done with me in the past. They hang back with tentative expressions, and when we walk forward they part before us like a school of small fish. I can't help but think of how their behavior mimics that of their parents when my uncle walks among them. With a small feeling of pride, I hold my chin a little higher as Fíli and I stroll along side-by-side.

It is when we have passed through the little throng that we finally see my opponent standing cross-armed with his head tilted to the side, a faint frown battling for a place on his fair face.

"Fíli." Besor ignores me completely, snarling my brother's name with such annoyance I almost laugh. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I think you know," Fíli replies with idle cheeriness, standing before my enemy with his hands folded behind his back. He examines Besor up and down with the manner of one choosing a side of beef at a market stand. His blue eyes glitter. "I came to watch you get kicked in your sorry rear end, big that it is."

There are a few surprised titters in the crowd; Besor reddens slightly, his chest puffing out with indignation before he quickly recovers himself. "Ah! Dear me, well," he laughs, his frown melting into his customary smirk. "Then I'm very much afraid that you're going to be dreadfully disappointed," he sneers. "I'm sorry that your trip will be for naught."

Fíli's confident smile only grows bigger and brighter. Besor's expression wavers slightly, bordering on irritation once more. After a moment Fíli squarely turns his back to him and walks away at a leisurely pace, winking merrily at me.

"The bigger they come, the harder they fall, eh little brother?" he says nonchalantly, causing another small wave of titters to overcome some of the spectators. As Fíli passes by he tosses me my training pads and I yank them easily over my head. I resist the urge to steal a glance over my shoulder at him, for now Besor locks his gaze with mine and I will not be the first to break that connection.

Fíli has done all that he can do. It's up to me, now.

Besor's hand comes to rest on his sword hilt and I reflect his behavior. The others quickly shuffle backwards, emptying from the area and coming to stand outside of the huge chalk circle around us. My white-blond opponent stares me down for almost two minutes, saying nothing, simply glowering at me with smoldering eyes.

He's trying to unnerve me. I refuse to give in, refuse to flinch or fidget under his uncomfortable gaze. I stare back at him, my dark eyes just as hard and unforgiving. I don't even blink.

I watch him studying me from head to toe, noting my royal clothes. I watch him silently chew on this glaring change, watch him eventually swallow and accept it. I watch him digest the rather important fact that he had conveniently forgotten or ignored about his chosen victim: that his _victim_ is the sister-son of our people's king, second heir to a distant kingdom. For all intents and purposes, no matter who Besor is in our little social group, he can never exceed—or even touch—my social class: I outrank him by default, whether I lose our fight or no. If I wanted to, I could get him into a lot of trouble if made enough noise.

Besor licks his lips.

I smile, having won this little standoff. Kíli one, Besor zero.

He scowls at me, a black expression that only makes me smile all the more sweetly. I can't help but feel inwardly pleased at how easily it seems I've managed to ruffle his feathers, all without saying a single word. Besor casts a sharp glance over my shoulder at someone behind me—presumably Fíli— then presents me with a disarming smile that spells danger.

"Well, Kíli," he finally begins. "Here we are again. How many times has it been, now? I've quite lost count."

I amaze myself by the inward calm with which I receive that rather scathing remark. I say nothing.

He jerks his head at me, eyes roving up and down my garb once more. "You think that pretty little thing changes anything?"

"Nope. Nothing's changed," I reply coolly. "I am who I've always been."

An amused snort. "Then I guess I have nothing to worry about."

Those words sting but I don't falter. "Oh, surely my mere choice of _dress _did not give you cause to worry?" I say slyly, raising an eyebrow at him. "I just happen to like the color blue. So does Fíli. We find it quite flattering; too bad you wouldn't be able pull it off."

Besor's face contorts in an ugly grimace. Obviously he no longer cares about disguising his dislike for me. "I don't care if you wore _pink_," he hisses. "It takes more than a color to change one's mettle… or lack thereof. I'm not worried."

"Neither am I," is my unemotional reply. It causes a bit of a stir among the spectators and Besor's eyebrows twitch upwards with surprised amusement. "If you're so confident," I continue in a raised voice ringing with surety, "Let's dispense with this useless verbal sparring and get on with it. I'm not interested in what you've got to say and I haven't got all day to waste with this nonsense."

The stir erupts to a loud buzz as the dwarflings talk and gasp among themselves, chortling to their neighbors while some crow for the fight to start. Besor's eyes flash and part of me quavers at the sight of it; I spoke out of faith, with more confidence than I actually feel. I mentally whisper a quick prayer to the almighty Eru and ask him for strength.

"Very well," Besor simpers, drawing his blunted sword and stepping back a number of paces, "As you wish, _my liege._ I hate to dirty that pretty frock but there's naught to be done about that."

"Fighting's a dirty business," I retort smoothly. "It'd be a folly for such a thing to be considered bothersome."

"It's only bothersome when you get your face grounded into the earth," the other hisses menacingly, out-and-out angry, now. _"Temper is a dangerous thing," _I can hear Mister Dwalin saying now, _"But something that can be quite advantageous when handled correctly." _One more point in my favor and we haven't even started.

I turn away and walk an equal number of paces toward the circle's edge, towards my stoic brother who stands there quietly. "And you think you can do that, then?" I say as I move, meeting and holding Fíli's gaze for too-brief a moment. His look gives me much-needed encouragement and I turn back around, feet planted firmly on the ground. "You think you'll grind me into the dust?"

"I don't 'think' so," Besor snarls. "I _know_ I will."

With bravado I give him one of my widest, brightest, most mischievous grins. My training sword makes a shrill sound as I whip it out of its scabbard. "Then come and get me," I declare stoutly.

The infuriated dwarf gives a mighty roar and rushes at me. I feel my heart skip a few beats but I too run forward without hesitation; adrenaline kicks in as I raise my sword high, matching his cry with a shout of my own.

Moments before impact Fíli touches my mind and I hear his unspoken words:

_Go get 'im, little brother._

Besor throws the entirety of his strength into the first blow, and I surely would not have been able to withstand it if I had met him head-on. Instead I side-step and brush the blow aside as neatly as I can, yet even so the sheer force of the attack shakes me to the core. Besor recovers quickly and spins around, once again swooping down on me with his total strength poured into a single blow. Again I side-step and redirect the blow, but his ferocity almost knocks off my feet in the process. Thus it continues; I dodge and parry, dodge and parry, riding out the storm of Besor's unrelenting attack. I had known that this confrontation would be difficult, rivaling all the others before, but I had not anticipated that it would be quite this vehement. It is as though some dark, inner beast was released inside of Besor once he found himself grasping an actual sword. In all our previous encounters he has behaved with a kind of cold self-restraint, a contemptuous mask always set on his flawless face. He fought with bloodthirsty zeal but there was a false sense of gaiety about him—but not so today. So help me, I feel as though Besor would kill me if he could.

All at once it hits me.

He doesn't merely want to make a mockery of me. He's done that already.

_He wants to put me in my place._

Besor has played me, toyed with me, pushed me around and thrown me down enough to satiate his sadistic desire to inflict misery on a 'weaker' being. He had planned on finishing me off today, like a cat that tires of teasing a trapped mouse and abruptly decides to devour it. Besor thought it would be a simple task that would be short, dirty, and effective… But then Fíli came, meaning that there would be a hostile witness—and we wore royal blue. Rank has been pulled and thrown in Besor's face _and he can no longer deny it._ Nobody present can deny it. He was prepared to socially bury me forever in the mud, but now he and everyone else has been reminded that he can't do that… not even if he beats me to a pulp.

And that makes him angry.

I foiled his picture-perfect plan of a grand finish and now he's taking it out on me. His great dislike—nay, hatred—that he has held for me and kept on a tight leash is now being given free rein. His behavior screams: _Maybe I can't destroy you, but I can make you suffer. _

Accidentally losing focus, I block a tremendous blow instead of dodging it and I stagger backwards, shaken. By now I have suffered several cuts and the sight of blood has done nothing to deter Besor's murderous assault. Few on the sidelines dare to cheer now; they have been shocked into silence. Our labored breathing echoes eerily on the rocks.

Besor remains aggressive but becomes increasingly reckless. He swings his blade about so much that he almost swipes me in the face, missing me by mere inches. His is so infuriated and overconfident in his self-assumed superiority that he is mishandling the weapon, treating it more like a sparring rod than a sword in a mock bottle. And there is nothing 'mock' about this battle. As this becomes clear to me I realize that I must exert extreme caution, for I can no longer assume that my Besor is in control of his own weapon.

My plan—as advised by my uncle—has been to preserve my strength and allow Besor to waste his own. I simply let Besor strike way while I successfully dodge or deflect most of his blows, not allowing them to fully land. The special maneuvers that Uncle taught me are of great help and allow me to continue in this manner. For a while, however, it seems that my plan has the opposite effect, for Besor's confidence continues to grow as I continue to back off and dance around. It's apparent that he comes to believe he has the upper hand as he grows more and more intimidating, making me lose ground as he slowly but deliberately advances. Once again I become too focused on the sword-work and I do not pay enough attention to my surroundings; when my sword tip scrapes loudly against the rock wall behind me I realize that I am trapped. I grit my teeth, hearing Uncle Thorin in my head sharply correcting me for not paying attention. A long, terrifying minute passes before I am able to duck and roll out of the way, far away from that dreadful wall. Breathing heavily I can feel the unwanted fear bubbling up inside, and I am no longer certain that my methods are going to work.

Then the unexpected happens: I slip.

I land on one knee and I catch myself before I fall further. Besor, however, pounces on the opportunity and moves in, leaving me unable to rise for the intensity of his attack. With an almost crazed glint in his eyes, he raises his sword high over his head and brings it down hard… where I block it, hold it, as he presses down with all his might. We remain frozen in this position for some time, me trapped in place while an ugly smile spreads across his features. I can't help but grimace from the terrible effort it takes to keep him at bay while I inwardly begin to panic: _I'm stuck, I'm stuck, what do I do, I can't move, I've never been in this situation before and I'm wasting my strength and ruining everything I've been trying to do and I can't lose again I just can't and he's insane and Oh Mahal this is not how this was supposed to go at all, please please I don't know what to do—_

My flow of consciousness is interrupted by a familiar voice.

_**Kíli! **__Snap out of it!_

Startled and desperate, I tear wild eyes away from Besor's blade and look past him, all the way to the circle's edge. It's Fíli… and it takes me a second to realize that he hadn't spoken—at least, not out loud. His expression is grim but his blue eyes are burning bright with emotion.

_You can do it, Kíli,_ his eyes say, searing the unspoken words into my brain. _You've got this. Just stay calm and focus._

That's all I need. Feeling heartened, the adrenaline flowing through my veins once more, I snap my gaze back to Besor and his immovable blade. A thought occurs to me; with a concentrated frown I shift my wrist in a way that allows me to push his weapon aside. I slide sideways and scramble quickly to my feet before he can recover, risking a triumphant glance in Fíli's direction before the struggle continues.

After a time Besor slowly cools down, regaining his customary control over his temper. I can see him studying me with puzzled eyes; I know he is wondering why I am not meeting his power with power, as I have done in the past. Our eyes meet and his brow is touched by a confused frown, his expression giving away the unasked question. Jaw set, I just give him a steely stare.

As we continue to fight I mentally wait… and wait… for my key window of opportunity.

Presently, it happens. I can see it in the way his arm shakes and his neck muscles strain: Besor is tired. After throwing his weight around for so long he is finally reaching his limit, his endurance sure to fail. Unfortunately for him, I'm only just starting: now it is _my_ turn to attack with ferocity. I muster my loudest, most intimidating roar and set upon him with all my saved strength. One by one I bring to the field all of my newest offense maneuvers that Thorin taught me so painstakingly, deep satisfaction growing within me as Besor is caught unprepared almost every time. He rallies for a while, returning my blows with those of greater strength—but he is unable to maintain his previous intensity and falters under my own. So shaken is he by this turning of the tables he begins to make simple mistakes, much to his horror and my amusement. He makes increasingly poorer and poorer decisions, and he earns himself numerous cuts for his trouble. More than once his feet nigh slip out from under him. He begins to stagger about in exhaustion, and while I am far from fresh, I am still going strong in my relentless assault.

Suddenly I give a particularly vicious swipe and his sword goes flying out of his hand, clattering noisily on the rocky ground far behind him. We both stop, gasping for breath, Besor wide-eyed with astonishment… and his eyes only grow wider at my next words.

"Pick it up," I command quietly.

"What?" he gasps. Sweat pouring freely down his face, he stares at me as incredulously as if I had two heads.

"Pick. It. Up," I repeat vehemently. I point my sword at him to emphasis my point and I take a step forward.

After another moment's hesitation Besor turns and runs to his fallen weapon, picking up and quickly turning back to me. We continue where we left off, Besor's performance continuing to decline, until he loses his sword a second time. Again, I order him to pick it up and resume fighting—and this occurs a third, fourth, fifth time. Each time Besor is further disillusioned, further humiliated, and soon is almost sobbing from fatigue. When his sword is sent hurtling through the air a sixth time my would-be bully all but goes to pieces.

"Pick… Pick it up, Besor," I manage to gasp.

"No, no, stop," he cries pitifully, rocking dangerously on his feet. "Please Kíli, no."

I narrow my eyes at him and step a little closer, weapon still pointed in his direction while Besor collapses to his knees, wheezing loudly and totally spent.

"P-Please," he pleads, chest heaving with dry sobs of desperation and misery, "Enough, Kíli; enough!"

Unable to believe anything that comes out of that snake's mouth, I step forward and grimly shove him onto his back with a single push. He yelps in alarm as I place my boot on his chest and pin him in place, sword pointed at him. Panting heavily, I stare down at him for a long moment, eyes scouring his face for any traces of deception. I see none. There is no fight left in my opponent, no pride or arrogance—he has been sorely beaten. He knows is, and I know it. It's over.

There is but one thing left to do.

"Do you—Besor, son of Rognus—then yield to me now," I cry in a loud voice, heart beating fast, "And for all time henceforth? For let this folly end here, ne'er to be repeated."

Dark eyes brimming with tears of shame, he clamps his jaw shut and says nothing in a last stand of defiance. In another few seconds, however, the stubbornness fades into oblivion and he shuts his eyes, turning his face away from me.

"Aye." His voice is pained, resigned. "I yield to you—Kíli, son of Dis."

"You _swear _it?" I insist, my voice touched by a slight growl.

Another pause. "I… I swear it."

There. It's done. Sheathing my sword, I remove my foot from his chest and step back, my mouth set in a straight line. "Then so be it."

With that, I turn my back on him and walk slowly away, barely registering the noises of his pathetic blubbering.

_It's over. _The weight of that thought hits me hard. _It's over. It's really over. _This time it is not one of hopelessness, but of triumph.

_It's well and truly __**over.**_

Dazedly I search the crowd of meaningless faces for the only person that matters. I find him, see him standing in the same position he assumed at the beginning of the fight, his hands folded gravely before him. Fíli treads the chalk circle edge, taking three steps forward into the ring as I approach him. When I come close in front of him I stop, breathless, feeling strangely numb and a little lightheaded.

Fíli is the first to speak.

"You did it, brother," he murmurs, a smile slowly easing across his face.

I nod wearily. "Aye, so I did," is my whispered answer. There is an odd rushing noise in my ears and the rest of the world seems to blur out some. "It doesn't seem real somehow."

Fíli's smile grows even wider, and before I am even aware of it he has pulled off my training pads and wrapped his arm firmly around my shoulder. "Oh, it's real," he says, pulling me away from that dreadful place, leaving my defeated foe alone amongst the gawking observers. "You can bet on that, mister."

Everything after that seems to happen as though in a dream, like the world as perceived from deep in the depths below a watery surface. We're floating heavily up, up the winding stairs. Strange white noise gurgles in my ears, all but drowning out the eruption of awed murmurings in the gathering now far below us. The beautifully glowing colors of the dying sunset pierce my vision in a distorted, disembodied mass of light. I am so overwhelmed by my thoughts and senses that these are all the things I know; I am aware of nothing else.

Then it is quiet; the noise in my ears has stopped. I realize that Fíli is gently pushing me onto a rock to sit upon, and as I look up at him crystal clarity abruptly returns. All my sense are burning hot, my mind racing at a ridiculous speed; then something within me melts and I am laughing hard and loud with total abandon. I laugh more freely than I have in months, with giggles, chuckles, guffaws and all. My brother is grasping me by both shoulders, looking down at me with one of his famous tomcat grins and looking awfully amused.

"Fíli! Oh, Fíli!" I exclaim loudly, saying his name over and over again, too overcome by joy to function. I grasp his arms in an iron grip and just laugh while holding onto him for dear life. My brother's eyes crinkle with merriment, his young laugh ringing delightedly with mine. I try to talk between my occasional gasps for air but fail for a long time.

"_**Fee-eee!**_" I eventually shriek, "I _WON!_"

He guffaws loudly and shakes me hard. "Of course you won, you silly goose!" he cries blissfully, "I said you would, didn't I? Well, didn't I?"

I leap to my feet and tackle him with an undignified squeal of unmitigated glee. Fíli grunts with surprise, and—both of us still laughing—he swings me in a circle like he did when I was years younger. He catches me off guard with this old gesture and as I cry out loud with delight, and I briefly wonder if it is possible to die from an overdose of pure happiness. Fíli tosses me unceremoniously on my feet, and I fall backwards into a convenient pile of wet leaves, gasping for breath. I am about to say something cheeky when we are suddenly interrupted by the loud sound of someone clearing his throat. At Fíli's wide-eyed expression I whip my head around to see our certain _someone _step out from behind one of the surrounding trees.

"Evening," he says quietly, arms folded behind his back. Surprised, Fíli and I babble one over the other as I scramble hastily to my feet.

"Unc—"

"Uncle Thorin!"

"What are you—"

"—you doing here?"

His face ever unreadable, maintaining its customary stern visage, Uncle Thorin regards us calmly as he approaches. "I saw everything," is all he says.

An enormous jolt of adrenaline shoots through my body and rocks me to the core. _He saw! He saw me win! _I am practically trembling with excitement but I bite down on my tongue to keep me from exclaiming anything foolish. It's bad enough my uncle already saw me act like a dwarfling half my age, bouncing around with my brother like I was a minute ago. Another moment passes before I realize that I'm grinning from ear to ear and I immediately swallow it, clear my throat and make an effort to stand taller.

"You saw the match?" I ask him in a reserved, respectable tone. I notice a few seconds too late that my fingers are drumming nervously on my sword hilt.

"Aye," he replies with a slight growl, and suddenly a hoard of butterflies invades my poor stomach. What did I do now? Did I not fight honorably? I gulp nervously as Thorin comes to a halt, towering over us and regarding me closely. I am used to his scathing criticism and yet I must fight not to tremble in my boots.

"You've got a couple rips there," he mutters, nodding to my jerkin.

Paling at his declaration I venture a tremulous look down at my invaluable article of clothing. Sure enough, there are two distinct tears in the rich velvet fabric that I can see: one on my shoulder and the other by the collar. I gasp in alarm. What do I say?_ I know I'm absolutely forbidden from wearing royal clothing without yours or Mum's permission, but I did it anyway, and now I ripped it. Oops? _That kind of response is hardly an option. I try to remember all the compelling reasons that I wore this thing and my mind races for an appropriate answer.

"Uhh," is all I can manage, and it is decidedly not the intelligent, grown-up response I was going for. I nervously raise my eyes to his.

"It's my fault, Uncle Thorin," Fíli swiftly interjects. "I insisted he wear it."

"N-No, it's not," I stammer, quite terrified now as my uncle fingers the bloodied fabric at my shoulder, examining it closely. "It was my decision. I-I didn't think it'd go right through the p-padding." I resist the urge to wince as his probing finger brushes over the uncomfortable cut on my skin.

"Hmm," Thorin murmurs thoughtfully, one impressive eyebrow raised high. "Your mother wouldn't like that, now would she?"

That is an absolutely dreadful understatement. I would like to confirm this fact but words escape me, so my horrified and slack-jawed expression has to suffice. At the forbidding look I get in return I am fully prepared to start begging and pleading for my life—when suddenly my uncle smiles at me. Nay, he _grins_ at me. I blink, stunned at such a rare expression, as he begins to chuckle merrily.

"Ah well. What she doesn't know won't hurt her. We shall avoid my sister's vindictive temper," he says with a smirk, "And get this repaired on the sly."

I stare at him, saucer-eyed. "Y-Y-You're not angry?"

"Angry!" he exclaims. "Kíli, my boy," he says, grabbing my head and ruffling my hair fiercely, "I couldn't more pleased."

Stunned, I brush the hair out of my eyes and continue to stare at him, the triumphant feelings from moments ago tentatively prickling at my heart again. My voice is hesitant. "Really?"

His eyes are kind; his smile, warm. He nods. "I am proud of you," he says quietly, his voice rough like sandpaper.

At that point I forget that I am supposed to be the victorious warrior and I instead act the role of the delighted child. I jump forward and hug my beloved uncle tightly about his waist, feeling so unbelievably happy. I wish to tell him _That's all I've ever wanted: your approval, _but my tongue stills; he knows that already. Thorin says nothing, but he wraps his arm around me firmly for a long moment. His hand then brushes softly over the back of my head in a fond gesture before he slaps me gently on my back.

"Alright, you two," he grumbles good-naturedly. "Let's at least _try_ to get home before the sun sets. The three of us will have a lot of explaining to do to your mother."

He holds out his other arm to Fíli, who skitters quickly to his side, and with one hand settled firmly on each of us Uncle Thorin guides the way home.

* * *

I take a deep breath of the chill spring air and allow myself to slump.

The fresh breeze blows away the wisps of smoke filtering out from inside our uncle's hot forge, bringing along fresh scents from the marketplace. Leaning firmly against the wall behind me I shut my eyes, trying to put a name to each fragrance as I stretch out my legs comfortably. There's the aroma of steaming bread from the bakery ovens, pastries and apple pie set aside to cool; perfumes and exotic spices of countless varieties; sweet wisteria and hyacinth from the flower stall; the musty smell of sweaty horses and people crowded into small spaces. At that last whiff I wrinkle my nose and open my eyes with a sigh.

Fíli and I have been attending our weekly session with Uncle Thorin at the forge, and are currently enjoying a fifteen minute respite from the oppressive heat. Fíli sits beside me, half-leaning against my shoulder while he lazily chews on a piece of straw. We sit in companionable silence for a time, both of us feeling significantly tired, speaking only occasionally. It's another crowded day in the marketplace and I quietly enjoy people-watching.

"I saw you talking with Dagan after sparring practice yesterday, and the twins," Fíli suddenly says, interrupting my silent musings.

"Eh? Yeah. Dagan's been pretty decent ever since the fight. We've talked a bit. Tasli and Tamli are feeling rather ashamed of themselves and want to be friends."

Fíli snorts. "Do they indeed."

"Aye. I think they mean it, too. I'm willing to give them a chance."

He grunts. "Y'know that Besor isn't sittin' all that pretty anymore?" He turns to me with a smirk. "I heard that some of the others challenged him to a few duels after your fight—and beat him, too. Guess they got bold after you showed him for what he really is."

"I guess wasn't the only one who had a bone to pick with him," I muse, suddenly retracting my legs to avoid being stepped on by a passing human merchant. "Has he become the latest underdog?"

Fíli chuckles. "Not quite, but most everyone's lost their respect for him. Talk about falling into his own grave, huh?"

With a sigh and nod thoughtfully, crossing my arms and shifting my numbed shoulder; it has fallen asleep under Fíli's weight. We pass a few more peaceable minutes in silence until I venture to speak once more.

"I wonder," I say thoughtfully, "How Uncle Thorin ever found out what was going on."

"How do Uncle or Mum find out about anything?" Fíli mutters. "They're adults. They know everything."

I shake my head insistently, absorbed in my memories. "But he knew _everything._ He couldn't have figured it out all by himself. He just couldn't."

Fíli is silent.

"He followed me that day. He saw me fight, and lose. But…"

I trail off as a thought comes to me, something that hadn't occurred to me before.

"Where was he when I came home?" I ask myself aloud. "I was long past our curfew; he's usually back by then." Another thought emerges, and I turn towards my brother. "And where were you, for that matter? You didn't seem to be at home, either, and nobody has mentioned your breaking curfew."

Fíli becomes engrossed in a spot of soot on his trousers.

I watch him, frowning at the tell-tale signs of a guilty conscience. "Is there something you want to tell me, Brother?"

He awkwardly brushes at the spot and mumbles, "Not really."

"Let me rephrase that," I grumble. "Is there something that you are _not _telling me that I should know about?"

Another period of silence ensues before Fíli answers my question. His shoulders crumple and his head bows as though from some great weight.

"I'm sorry, Kee," he whispers. "I know I promised you. I didn't want to tell him. He cornered me and I couldn't lie to him, not to his face. Not about that."

I wait for him to continue but when he falls silent again I prod him: "What happened?"

Fíli stares at the pavement, looking thoroughly abashed. "Uncle was on his way back to the forge when he intercepted me on the path. He told me what he saw between you and Besor and he bade me walk with him back to town to talk with him." My brother takes a deep breath and shifts uncomfortably. "I didn't say anything at first. We just sat alone in the forge and we didn't talk for a long time. He kept giving me that scary stare of his, patiently waiting for me to speak. I couldn't take that awkward pressure and eventually blurted out that I'd promised you to remain silent. I tried to tell him that I couldn't rat out on you, that I gave you my word as your older brother, but—"

"—But Uncle Thorin doesn't take no for answer, especially where our personal welfare is concerned," I interrupt, offering Fíli a little smile. "He told you it was your duty as an older brother to act in my best interests, regardless of what I want."

Fíli looks up, startled by my mild expression. He smiles a bit in return and nods sheepishly, his eyes still sorrowful. "Aye," he murmurs.

I smirk at him, bumping his shoulder with mine. "I forgive you for acting in my best interests."

Looking immediately relieved, Fíli smirks back and nudges me with his elbow. "Especially since it all turned out for the best."

"Especially," I say with a wink.

He laughs, elbows me again, and I elbow him back. Chortling and playfully bickering, we are hard at it by the time our uncle steps in the forge doorway, wiping his brow. His sleeves are rolled up past the elbows, his skin dark with soot and coated with a sheen of sweat.

"Fíli, Kíli," he barks, gesturing his head towards the interior. "Come along."

Quickly, we obediently clamber to our feet and follow him inside. The wall of heat almost physically slams into me and I blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the dim light.

"I want to show you something," Thorin says, picking up something from a scrap pile on another dwarf's workbench. "It's important, so listen well."

My brother and I solemnly stand side-by-side as my uncle turns to us with a large fistful of long, thick wires. "These are composed of a mixture of various metals and are used in ornament-making. They can be further heated and hued to finer gauges to become more pliable, but as you can see these are yet in a rough state. Quite thick, but still workable." He then turns his attention solely to me. "Kíli," he says, holding out the small bundle to me, "I want you to bend them for me."

With an attentive nod I dutifully accept the handful of metals and move to do as my uncle bid me. However, it is not as easy as I had expected. The wires are indeed thick and rather unwieldy, and when I try to bend them they do nothing; surely, they should move at least a tad? Unfazed I attempt it again, putting more effort into it, but still the wires do not bend. I can feel Thorin's uncomfortable stare burning on my head and I feel myself turning red with embarrassment.

"I'll get it—um, just give me a minute," I mumble, trying yet a third time. Grunting, I put all of my strength into it but the bundle scarcely bends at all. I make one last valiant effort but it is again futile, for despite my best intentions there is hardly any visible change in those confounded little strips of metal. Cheeks burning, I sheepishly hold out the fistful of wires to my uncle.

"M'sorry, Uncle Thorin," I say, cringing with shame, "But I can't do it."

He gravely accepts the wire bundle and weighs them thoughtfully in his hand.

"No," he replies, "Of course you can't. When they're together like this, each one tightly supported by the other, they do not bend so easily under pressure." With careful fingers he selects and extracts a single wire and discards the rest onto the workbench. "However," he intones forcefully, "Singly, they can be bent." He takes the wire then and easily bends it, looping it around itself half a dozen times before he looks up again and studies each of us intently. "By itself, without the support of others like it, it can bend prematurely. Each one of these can be bent, even broken, with the right amount of pressure. That's why they need support."

Uncle Thorin lays down the twisted piece of metal and then lays his hands heavily on our shoulders, studying each of our faces in turn. "The same goes for people," he mutters, "Alone, we can all buckle under the weight of our burdens. It's a hard lesson that you boys best not forget." His piercing blue eyes burn bright as they hold their gaze with mine. "Remember it well."

He allows a short pause for his words to sink in, and then our uncle is back to his stern, reserved self. He beckons for us to follow him back to the anvil and he walks on ahead; I start after him but Fíli tarries, grasping my arm. A smile plays on his lips.

"You won't push me away and be a lonely little wire anymore, will you?" he asks me quietly.

I raise my eyebrows at him, amused, before giving him a happy smile. "No, Fíli," I whisper back. "Not anymore. I promise."

He slips his hand into mine and gives an encouraging squeeze, a smile brightening his own face. "From now on," he whispers fervently, "We face the world _together_, as it should be."

I nod, squeezing his hand back. "Together for always, Big Brother. We won't bend so easily."

"Always," he echoes in a hushed voice.

Then with a firm nod he releases my hand… and together, we hasten to our uncle's side.

* * *

_**The End**_

* * *

_**A/N: **__I sincerely hope that you've enjoyed the final chapter to young Kíli's adventure. I can hardly believe I have finished this story. It makes me feel a wee bit sad! _

_I shall continue to write more Hobbit tales when I have the time—and if the mischievous Blue Canary continues to inspire me—so please 'follow' me! In the works is another angsty family tale, this time told from our beloved Fíli's perspective, plus a (hopefully) humorous one-shot about Kíli's hair troubles. Fun times are ahead!_

_God bless you all and may you all have a lovely day. Keep looking up! _

_**~xoxo, Nalbal**_


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